


Tyrant of the Seraglio

by Bibliotecaria_D



Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-01 00:15:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 43,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Megatron wishes Optimus were less enthusiastic a harem slave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Slave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reasons](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=reasons).



**Title:** Tyrant of the Seraglio, Pt. 1  
 **Warnings:** READ THE WARNINGS, PLEASE  
 _Interfacing (cable/tactile)_  
BDSM (dominance/submission, slavery)  
Coercion  
Rape (arguably so, anyway)  
Author’s inability to take anything seriously  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Continuity:** IDW/G1 (AU)  
 **Characters:** Megatron, Optimus Prime, Skywarp  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** _Megatron/Optimus – overconfidence_

[* * * * *]

“It’s always Starscream’s fault. Somehow, inevitably, it’s always Starscream’s fault.” Megatron rested his head on one fist and eyed the wide band of metal wrapped around his opposite wrist wearily. It looked like an ornate piece of armor but operated as an ownership claim. Because no slave society was complete without its version of a slave collar. 

“I would have thought it more your fault,” Optimus no-longer-Prime muttered. It was an old argument, a conversational rut worn through the middle of their days by repetition. Grind that resentment a little deeper, Megatron. “You ignored him.” Prod him a little further, Optimus. “You shouldn’t have ignored him.”

“How should I have known it was any different than any of his other ravings?” the old tyrant complained. “He threw a new fit every other day.” He lifted his head in order to use the hand. The welds on the band were tested, one by one, and Megatron didn’t even appear to notice he was doing it. The check of fingers against the sealed catches was as habitual as the lazy glare Optimus threw at him for it.

As habitual as the sighed, “It won’t come off. “ They both knew it. Megatron did his little checklist of rebellion: wrist and forearm, _pick pick pick_ down the welds. Optimus just watched. In a way, it was his own version of rebellion: refusing to assist, refusing to be involved. Apathy instead of cooperation. Apathy that didn’t change when the band-locks reached their conductor limit and gave a warning shock. It sat Megatron up in a real hurry, and Optimus cycled another heavy pull of air through, sighing again. “You should have listened.”

“To you now, or to Starscream then?” Megatron said sourly, but it was an old sour like lemons left to rot. Old arguments squeezed of all their juice. It would be sad, but Megatron couldn’t do sad. The closest he could do was nostalgia, and even then he had to be roaring drunk. “Starscream was a fool.”

“And you’re an idiot.” Complacent as he ever was these days, Optimus drifted across the room and settled on the corner of the table. It was a decorative thing not meant to bear much weight, but he was an old hand at balancing on finicky furniture nowadays. “You would have said I led an army of fools, but you never ignored us.”

That got him a thoughtful look. “No, I didn’t.” The banded wrist laid flat on the table. It might have, maybe, slid a tiny distance toward the ex-Prime. “But Starscream was not one of your fools.”

“No.” Optimus gave the hand slo~o~wly creeping toward him a bland look and edged his aft a little further away. It wasn’t an old dance, nowhere near the age of their verbal banter, but the steps were familiar. They already knew where and how it would end, just like the argument would come to the same slagging conclusion when they were finished beating that dead equine yet again. “But I wasn’t your Second-in-Command, Megatron. ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,’ as the humans said.” 

“Don’t talk humanisms at me.” Resentment edged the words, but Megatron’s expression was strangely tolerant. “Starscream was nominally my ally.”

“You kept him closer than you kept me.” The pout would have been hidden by a battlemask in times past. Megatron would dare to say his old foe wouldn’t have used the expression at all, but who knows what Optimus had been like among his Autobots? “I just mean to say that if there’s any truth in the saying, you should have known who was the more dangerous fool and paid more attention.”

“Really.” That hand continued creeping. “Closer, hmm?” The wristband buzzed warning. Megatron eyed it and pushed a little further. 

“I think you just like ignoring things until they hurt you,” Optimus said, slightly amused as the silver mech was zapped again.

“I never ignored you,” Megatron snapped, rubbing his stung wrist. 

“Obviously you never wanted me to hurt you.” Amusement became obnoxious cheer, and Optimus beamed. “By that logic, you practically asked for this!”

“I. Asked. For this.” Flat and unamused? Megatron’s glare could pancake comedians. “I asked to wear this,” he waved his arm, showcasing the slave band, “and I asked to –“ He cut himself off and looked away.

“Yes.” Real feeling had been scooped out, argument by argument, until only traces remained lingering around the edges. Optimus’ expression was almost remote, and his voice held the bare echo of sympathy. “You did. When you ignored Starscream.”

“It’s his fault!” burst out of the old tyrant, and around they went again.

The time came when they eventually gave up. Not because either of them had won their side of their argument, of course, but because the door at the far end of the room opened. Megatron turned about in his chair but didn’t get up; insolence had been a habit ingrained long before slavery. Via constant tiny movements of the chair and his hand, he’d managed to chivvy Optimus to the very end of the table, and the ex-Prime simply slid the rest of the way off to stand straight. 

The Autobot immediately swept into a shallow bow. He always did that when someone opened the door of the harem, however, so it wasn’t as special as one might think. Had it been his toybox, Megatron reflected bitterly, it would have been a move reserved solely for his entrance and no other’s. But then, had it been his toybox, no one else would have been allowed to play with the toys inside. 

Oh, and Prime would have worn chains. Functional ones. And not just on days when their master wanted him to look pretty.

Also, it would have been his toybox. That was a detail worth repeating. His harem, not him inside the harem. 

Yeah. Important detail, that.

“My lord?” The ex-Prime looked up, face set in solemn lines and blue optics somber. Megatron had hated him for that at first, but it was difficult to hate the leader of the Autobots for stepping up to this the way he had every other duty. To Optimus, this was a duty as serious as war. More than, really. This particular duty had, in a way, ended their war.

There was a reason only Megatron got the electrified armband.

Skywarp’s optics slid past Megatron the way they always did. “Optimus.” Red optics settled happily on the ex-Prime, content with ‘not-seeing’ the leader Skywarp had once followed diligently. “C’mere. You’re mine for the cycle.” The teleporter bounced into the room with an excitement that never faded. Civil war might be over, but battlefield crushes didn’t fade so quickly. Turning fantasy into reality, surprisingly, hadn’t dulled the edge off Skywarp’s illicit little crush…but, then again, his access to said fantasy-turned-reality was strictly controlled. 

Despite Megatron’s complaints, he knew Starscream wasn’t that much of a fool.

Optimus didn’t show the slightest reaction to Skywarp’s words, one way or another. It wasn’t resignation so much as simple familiarity. Emotional extremes of disappointment or interest had long been worn down to a subdued, if fundamentally good-natured, stoicism. “As my master commands, my lord.”

The most nauseating thing about it was how sincere Optimus sounded. Megatron glared as the ex-Prime strode forward with the same confidence he’d once held walking into battle, but Optimus was no longer armed. The Autobot had been stripped of weaponry and the Matrix, leaving his body oddly smaller for all that he hadn’t actually changed physically. What had been taken from him was leadership. Without the Primacy, all that met Skywarp in the middle of the room was the memory of a strong leader.

Optimus argued he led still, but Megatron insisted in turn he’d just sold his body. But as he watched Skywarp’s arms wrap around the grounder, it was hard to call the deal anything but fair. One mech in return for peace? It wasn’t as if they were hurt. Enslaved, degraded, and humbled – but not hurt. As far as prices for peace went, the ex-Prime considered it a good bargain. 

Really, the only stipulation Optimus had demanded was the lack of pain, and from what he’d told Megatron, that had been something the other Autobots had insisted on. Optimus had entered the harem prepared to be an abused toy. From the moan Skywarp’s hands were pulling out of him at the moment, the lack of abuse wasn’t missed. Skywarp played nice. Skywarp played very nice.

Megatron shifted in the chair, refusing to acknowledge how nice. 

Optimus’ altmode was still a semi-truck, for all that he hadn’t transformed in ages, but Skywarp was still larger. The flyer swept the ex-Prime into his arms and bent him back into a kiss deep enough to mine. One hand slipped down and – as if to mock Megatron – successfully groped the Autobot’s aft. The other rubbed up along the edges of the plating on his back, slowly bringing the mech back upright. Optimus offered no resistance, and in fact raised his hands to cup around Skywarp’s face as the kiss eased back into something less like a depth charge. As soon as Skywarp’s lips left his, Optimus caught them again. Skywarp made a small noise of pleasure and cocked his head to slide their mouths into a better fit.

The Autobot twined his leg around the flyer’s thruster, pulling it up so that the tires rolled over Skywarp’s leg, and one blue hand left Skywarp’s jaw in order to stroke up the inside of an air intake. Red optics flared wide, and suddenly the powerful growl of a flight engine riproared across the room. Their lips parted as Skywarp gasped a curse, and Optimus smiled a bit. 

“The berth, my lord?” The calm voice remained unfazed, but there were blue fingers playing across Skywarp’s jaw and around the intake rim. 

Megatron stubbornly turned away, refusing to watch as someone who had been one of his most loyal followers turned the mech who’d been his arch-nemesis about and smacked him on the aft to hustle him along. Optimus’ deep voice had reserves of dignity toys shouldn’t have access to. If Megatron turned off his optics, he could almost imagine that voice speaking across a negotiation table from him. Maybe not a battlefield, but perhaps there might have come a time when they didn’t have to shout at each other. A time that didn’t involve a slave band he couldn’t remove and extraneous sounds that clearly had nothing to do with negotiating. At least, not negotiating with Megatron.

He twitched a glance toward the noise almost involuntarily, and he nearly groaned. In exasperation! That was all! 

_Pick pick pick_ ZAP!

The shock hurt, but he still didn’t look away.

Skywarp was chasing Optimus around the desk again. Skywarp was a teleporter, for Primus’ sake, but he stalked the Autobot step by step. Optimus was as solemn as ever, going so far as to snap his battlemask over his face. A hint of a crinkle could still be seen at the edges of his optics, however, betraying some kind of emotion. He could have been repressing a smile or a processor-ache, but there was a certain coyness to the way he lightly dodged the opposite direction around the desk. It suggested the ex-Prime was having a bit of fun. 

Skywarp reversed quickly to chase, but – as dignified as always – Optimus ducked under the desk. The chair-well was too narrow to allow for Skywarp’s wings, something learned by trying to follow the smaller grounder under in the past. Not that it mattered, anyway; the point seemed to be that now the duo could go through their strange roleplay. 

It was ridiculous. Just like it was ridiculous that a teleporter would chase someone around. Skywarp would crouch there and try to coax Optimus out. Sometimes he succeeded. Sometimes he tired of the play and flat-out ordered the slave out. Most of the time he fished around under the desk until he caught a limb, and then he used it to pull Optimus out.

The flyer liked to do that for reasons the ex-Prime would only smile silently about, and that led Megatron to think it had something to do with before…before. Which meant that his loyal follower might have been chasing Optimus around furniture prior to the end of the war. Which didn’t actually mean much in terms of today, but it would have meant treason back then. Megatron tried not to think about it. Past treason couldn’t be helped, but thinking about it tended to make him angry for reasons pertaining more to here and now than back then.

He’d been in the harem too long to get upset over people enjoying themselves anymore. There was little point to it. He’d been confined because…well, because. Optimus had voluntarily surrendered and come to the harem himself. Everyone else visited to have a good time. That’s why mechs _went_ to a harem. Nobody wanted to reach into a toybox and find a bear trap waiting inside. They were sent here as a reward for exemplary service, after all, and Megatron couldn’t even argue that the mechs his master sent didn’t deserve a reward. He just didn’t want to be one of the toys in the toybox. 

“Come o~o~ut,” Skywarp called playfully, and Megatron grimaced.

He looked away again when the purple-and-black Seeker stuck an arm under the desk, fishing for miscellaneous grab-able bits. Optimus would allow himself to be pulled out. The play was what Skywarp liked, but what he ultimately wanted involved the berth instead of the desk. Optimus played along as he always did, because he genuinely believed it was his duty to give their…visitors…what they wanted. Like any duty he’d had as Prime, he gave this one his all. 

It disgusted Megatron. The fact that Optimus actively sought to enjoy his duties disgusted him more. He ruthlessly suppressed the part of him that wondered if he could derive any enjoyment from harem slavery if he were any more suited to being a dutiful mech. Maybe, had he been just an officer instead of the leader of the Decepticons..? 

No. There was a faint bit of doubt lodged in the back of his mind, but what rational mech could embrace slavery? Megatron couldn’t be unique in that Even with the understanding that vorns of endlessly recycled discussions with the ex-Prime gave him, Megatron still found Optimus’ dedication to this so-called ‘duty’ extremely backward. Optimus had been a dock worker before he’d been Prime. He’d had more day-to-day freedom than any energon miner. While Megatron compared most Autobots to easily-led sheepicrons, they were too independent to be herded into a life of slavery. If they were, they would have succumbed to the Decepticons under Megatron’s rule. His demands might have required enslaving some, but surely the Autobots hadn’t fought him because they thought he sought to enslave them all. 

Had he really seemed _that_ unreasonable?

It was a question Optimus had refused to give a straight-forward answer to. Not once, in all this time forced into each other’s company. Perhaps the Autobot didn’t want to think about the millions of years of war that might have been avoided if he’d just surrendered to Megatron this way. Or perhaps Optimus didn’t want to open that box of worms. Because if Megatron had perpetuated their war, handled any and everything wrong to the point where being overthrown and his regime crushed, his freedom taken away, had been the solution to civil war –

\-- if Optimus’ insistence that Megatron had brought this on himself was correct -- 

One hand fumbled, automatically seeking permanently closed seals. _Pick pick pick_ ZAP!

Megatron shook himself and sat up straighter. Optimus just didn’t want to be miserable. Yes. It was, in a bizarre way, the only personal freedom a slave had left.

From all the moaning going on, Optimus wasn’t miserable now. Megatron’s optics skipped over the berth, but there was something about the smooth length of white thighs that captured his attention every time. Despite himself, his optics zeroed in. Frag it. 

_Pick pick pick_ ZAP!

…still couldn’t look away. Could he ever?

He hated slavery, but sell him for scrap if it didn’t sometimes have its perks.

Skywarp had knelt on the berth with the Autobot’s legs up over his shoulders, wings comfortably wedged between the rubber tires. Optimus bucked up from the bed as purple hands slid a polishing cloth up one of those long grounder legs. The Seeker had to snag the leg he lavished attention on with his free hand when thumbing a sensitive seam caused an uncontrolled kick. There wasn’t much force behind the kick, and Skywarp turned his head to lick at Optimus’ knee. That got another moan and twisting motion that was more encouragement than escape attempt. Avid optics watched his reaction, and licks turned to light nips. Skywarp nibbled his way across what gears and cables flexed into reach, visually molesting the Autobot all the while. 

The cloth circled back to that seam, ‘polishing’ it again and again until Optimus relented. The mask retracted, and Skywarp chortled, letting go of the ex-Prime’s legs in order to lean down over him. The tires rolled off his wings, and Optimus’ legs fell to either side of his waist instead as Skywarp stole a kiss from revealed lips. Theft turned into something slow and sensual when the ex-Prime’s hands stopped clutching Skywarp’s thighs and moved to start tracing nonsensical patterns up the flyer’s back. The kiss was practically breaking and entering by the time those hands slid under Skywarp’s wings and began wandering about there. 

Skywarp’s hands lightly rubbed blue antenna before stroking all the way back down Optimus’ body to grip the mech’s sleek thighs again. Skywarp dug his thumbs in, making the ex-Prime rumble. “Mine,” the flyer said, words escaping in short gasps between their mouths. “You’re mine!”

“I belong,” dents popped in under Skywarp’s possessive hold, and Optimus’ voice lowered to a bass the same pitch as his racing engine, “to my master.” The dented thighs tucked up, and windshield frames clinked against canopy glass as Optimus surged back into the kiss.

Purple fingers splayed on white thighs were a mesmerizing sight. Lips parted and met again, whispering silvery metal soundtrack to the show, and Skywarp arched as a joint got tweaked just right. Optimus knew what he liked, and in the harem, what he liked, he got. Although he _wasn’t_ their owner. 

As soon as the kiss broke, the Autobot heaved his hips. Fighter jets were heavier than semi-trucks. That was just a fact of reality. Also real was the fact that Optimus had far more hand-to-hand combat experience than any Seeker used to fighting from the air. Experience and leverage had Skywarp tumbled onto his cockpit before the teleporter could process it. This was good and therefore fighting it was a poor idea anyway. 

But he figured that out on his own soon enough. Right about the time Optimus buried his face between nosecone and helm to dig teeth into the back of his neck, to be specific. 

Skywarp squealed and bucked, but Optimus was having none of it. The holding bite moved down to the tip of Skywarp’s nosecone, and his hand came down on the Seeker’s aft as if punishing him for the smack earlier. Squealing turned to unidentifiable words immediately afterward, all garbled by static or spoken into the crook of an arm as biting turned to hard suction. Skywarp collapsed flat on his cockpit and commenced squirming about with a complete lack of pride. The Autobot gave him one more reproving spank before moving to straddle said spanked aft. That freed up his hands to rake down the back of white vents, then rub firm circles down the vulnerable strip of wing-joints where wings attached to the flyer’s back. Aaaaaall the way down the joints, down to his waist -- and then he started back up again. Even harder this time. Hard enough to shake Skywarp’s wings with every circle until they banged on the berth and sent the pillows to the floor.

One arm was joined by the other, and Skywarp wrapped them around his head as if to contain his yelling. Purple hands seized his own helm vents, and there was some seriously ecstatic wriggling going on. Charge crackled in white waves over black plating, and there were teeth marks on the purple nosecone. Optimus worked his mouth over it meticulously, almost chewing on the sensor-laden point. The teleporter’s alignment grid drew 38.5% of its data from the sensor network packed into his nosecone, and the ex-Prime forced his tongue into every recessed node, gnawed gently on the protrusions.

Megatron couldn’t even pretend to be aloof anymore. Optimus so rarely broke out his dominant side that Megatron had to stop himself from standing up just to get a closer look. The old tyrant’s hand pick-picked its way down the wristband, but the warning shock barely registered this time since Skywarp tossed his head back and _shouted_ right then. 

“Oh, Pri~im **us!** ” 

The yelled warbled weirdly in the middle as Skywarp’s vocalizer tried to span four octaves in two syllables. The Autobot on his back pushed him back down and started digging his hands under the flyer in search of more grid-points. That yell was really the last coherence available. Skywarp went back to thrashing and making sounds of senseless pleasure. Building charge spat and flamed against the boundaries of the Seeker’s energy field, occasionally forming an iridescent bubble of charge that flashed across his wings. 

Megatron set his feet against the floor and pressed into the chair back to stop the ludicrous urge to get up and join them. He drew in a deep vent of air that reeked of lightning-burnt ozone, then sent every fan to exhaling that air in one long, slow, meditative push. 

He’d always had a short temper, but he hadn’t realized how poor his self-control had become until control had been taken away. When self-discipline and control belonged to someone else, it’d made him intensely conscious of how little he’d been using previously. It’d been surprising to discover how much he’d indulged himself in violence when he didn’t get his way. After millions of years as leader of the Decepticons, he’d found he didn’t take ‘no’ well. It’d been something of a history lesson. He’d had to remember techniques for controlling himself he hadn’t had to use since his days as a miner. 

After vorns of watching scenes like this, he used them now without even thinking about it. 

Electricity arced between the ex-Prime’s palms and the pointed tips of Skywarp’s wings. Charge flowed in transparent sheets that flashed and sizzled, transferring to Optimus’ hands in miniature pillars of lightning. Optimus flexed his hands, changing the shape of the vivid discharges like a mad mechanical Tesla. He rolled a wrist, and a skein of light wrapped around his hands before merging into their energy fields and making both mechs groan. Blue hands flattened, stroking inward as if gathering the charge in to where white thighs straddled Skywarp’s aft. The Seeker hunched, head burrowing into his arms. The rest of his body bowed off the berth until only Optimus’ weight kept him down.

Splashes of crackling charge lapped up the ex-Prime’s legs. It wasn’t enough, and Optimus reached out again. Blue fingers stripped plating of paint and charge alike in large handfuls that were dragged to the spark-spitting point where Autobot metal met Decepticon. Skywarp keened, his energy field shaped into a densely transparent cloud under Optimus’ hands. Turbines spun and flight engines roared, but the dark bass of a grounder’s engine rumbled under Skywarp’s mindless wails. Optimus sculpted and held fistfuls of energy, red and blue rocking on top of purple and black: riding the charge in a blindingly white saddle. 

If there had ever been a sight of more passion, some numb part of Megatron’s mind prayed Primus never showed it to him. His internals were already running ragged just watching this. The strained rattle of his fans wasn’t even audible through Skywarp’s cries. 

Somehow, however, he could clearly hear the deep growl of Optimus ordering the Seeker, “Turn over.”

Megatron pried one hand off the chair armrest and desperately clawed at the armband, deliberately overstepping the band-lock conductors hard and fast. The shock this time was closer to a punishing jolt, and it burnt through the circuitry of his arm like fire crawling up his arm. The cables on his neck briefly stood out as he bit back the pain, but it allowed him to whirl around. It let him look _away._. His hands locked on the table edge, crushing it slightly in his grip. 

When the wash of static from the punishment filtered back out of his vision, he focused on that table. The decorative scrolling on the underside was a mess, now. His master would be so disappointed. The action/reaction-hobbler keyed into him from the slave band had been dialed back vorns ago when Megatron had stopped smashing up the furniture. It’d been an encouraging sign, at least so far as a slave master was concerned. At the time, Megatron had just barely restrained himself from throwing another desk through the window out of sheer spite.

In the end, the luxury of having his full strength had won out over pride. It had taken over 100 vorns to gain that ‘privilege.’ Now he’d probably be limited again – unless he apologized, of course, which wasn’t going to happen. Not at the price of his scraps of pride. He was no Optimus.

Optimus had sold out, surrendering gracefully to their owner and gaining back a peculiar kind of authority in his enslavement. Skywarp obeyed the order without question, without even a flicker of irritation at being ordered about by a slave. While Optimus didn’t abuse that ability, it was common knowledge that there wasn’t a mech who entered the harem who wouldn’t bend before the ex-Prime’s whims.

It was Optimus’ duty as a harem slave to give the mech his master gifted him to their reward. He took this duty seriously and never pushed his boundaries. The strange result was that everyone remembered whose slave he was, what status he had as a mech owned by another, but they collectively failed to treat him as an actual slave. Megatron, on the other hand, had not surrendered, would never surrender, and could not stop pushing his limits. It made everyone all the more aware that he was nothing but a slave.

Technically, any mech allowed into the toybox could play with the toys inside. The vast majority preferred to play with Optimus. As Motormaster had put it, interfacing with Megatron was like hooking up to lead brick. An _angry_ lead brick. One with the potential to blow up while a mech was connected, which hurt like the Pit for every party involved. 

Interfacing with Optimus couldn’t even be rated on the same scale. It just…couldn’t. The comparison just couldn’t happen.

Megatron had been there for the awkward first vorns. He’d witnessed somber Optimus no-longer-Prime use duty and patience to file down the mountain of humiliation wearing a slave band imparted. Their endless arguments had started circling, and constant exposure had worn away the jagged edges of emotion. Time had pared away embarrassment. It’d left an Autobot more impassive than involved, more inclined to apathy than sympathy, but it’d also taught a relative amateur in the berth tricks to make a hedonist scream. 

So, the choice between Megatron or Optimus? Really not a hard one. Especially in the case of Decepticons like Skywarp, who still skipped their optics past their former leader because it was easier than acknowledging him. There was defeat, and then there was defeat so complete it totally subjugated the defeated. 

The Autobots had chosen surrender for the sake of peace, and their leader had walked into that subjugation with optics wide open. 

Megatron stared at the broken table and bitterly thought about how servitude suited some. Not him. Never him.

It was a cycle of thoughts 167.89 vorns old, however, and it came right back to where he’d started. Even defiance lost its fire after a while. He lifted his optics, feeling a resigned sort of pleasure as he took in the sight of Optimus on all fours above Skywarp. Dented white thighs straddled the flyer’s hips, and Skywarp’s legs kicked out periodically in helpless spasms of pleasure. Megatron reluctantly released the table and rearranged his hands on the armrests again. He couldn’t escape it. Might as well watch, right?

The duo were lip-locked together as firmly as the welded catches on Megatron’s armband. Their optics were offline but still glittered dully with shared charge as Optimus’ hands kneaded slowly across the wide expanse of Skywarp’s wings. Lightning followed his hands like he was fingerpainting, occasionally zipping in rippling waves up his arms. By the time the ex-Prime’s erotic massage worked from wingtip to back hinges, the wings shimmered under a skin of barely-contained energy as the flyer’s field fluxed and distorted, trying to meld with Optimus’. 

Optimus’ eventually worked his hands up to Skywarp’s cockpit, however. The latch had popped sometime -- back when the door had first opened in all likelihood -- and blue hands dipped inside. Optimus drew away from Skywarp the way some mechs tore themselves away from a cube of the finest high grade, and Megatron consciously stopped himself from biting his own lip when Skywarp gently caught the Autobot’s bottom lip in his teeth. Optimus nuzzled back into the kiss, but his hands didn’t stop pulling the thin strands of interface cables out from under canopy glass. His fingers pinched on one coruscating cable, compressing the clear cover over excited circuitry just enough for the Seeker to arch, gasping. 

The cables slid through blue fingers, combed straight. They lit up into a dazzling glitter of multicolored circuitry in the wake of the pressure, and one strand snagged. Optimus paused to untangle it by feel alone, still concentrating on peppering Skywarp with erratic, light kisses. Cable untangled, it was laid back into the thick skein of strands laying across one blue palm. Optimus combed his fingers through them again while Skywarp pushed frantically into his hands. And again, squeezing his fingers together with just a smidgen of harshness.

Skywarp’s cables were a bundle of racing lights that sped noticeably faster when squeezed, and the Seeker’s legs kicked wildly. For every mewling cry, the ex-Prime took Skywarp’s mouth in a deep kiss until the sobbed sounds muffled to whimpers. When the grounder lifted his head this time, Skywarp didn’t have enough wits left in his head to stop him. Purple hands floundered about until they found the ex-Prime’s antenna, but it seemed to be more of a handhold on reality than an attempt at holding Optimus in place. Optimus’ motor still purred, and he turned his head into the sensation.

Megatron swallowed and tightened his grip on the chair as the ex-Prime’s chest clicked open. From where he sat, he could only see the windshield swing down into view, but he knew what was behind the glass. White charge snapped between canopy glass and windshield, almost hiding the multicolored flit and flicker of Optimus’ cables dropping down. Truck cab met jet cockpit, and their fields synchronized with a visible _snap_ shooting charge in a sudden crackling wash of lightning over the two mechs. Skywarp arched off the bed, wings twitching and mouth open in a soundless scream, and even Optimus faltered before getting a hold of himself. 

The first connection redirected everything to channel the through the cables instead. The strands flared in brilliant streaks of moving light colored by Skywarp’s gold glass and reflecting off Optimus’ red paint. The cable circuitry sparkled, lights moving so fast and glowing so bright that a laser lightshow dotted the ceiling and walls with colors. 

Optimus hands were almost hidden as he connected the dozen of leads one by one, turning the jumbled handfuls of cable into a carefully woven network. One cable from Skywarp linked into his chest, then the corresponding cable from him went into the Seeker’s cockpit. The blue of his optics darkened as each lead snapped into place, almost disappearing into the white flare of conducted charge, but there was no mistaking the minute smile playing across his face. Any other mech would be a formless mass of panting intakes and hands all over. Megatron was cycling his ventilation system like the meditative exercise could save him from that fate. Optimus just lost his dignified mien enough to show real desire instead of Dutiful Harem Slave.

Honestly, it was like being stuck in a harem with the patron saint of interfacing. Megatron had known dead mechs who’d sit up and beg for a piece of that!

The ex-Prime sat back, stretching the cables out between them. Skywarp’s hands groped uncertainly after the antenna pulled out of reach, but Optimus waited until some semblance of thought returned to the Seeker. The ongoing litany of gasped cries throttled back as Skywarp chewed on his own lip and shuddered, blinking rapidly. When the pulsing wash of pleasure ebbed enough to show anything but blind lust in red optics, Optimus leaned back over him and held up the sparking ends of the last two cables. He brought them between their faces and used them to trace the Decepticon’s mouth.

“Oh,” Skywarp groaned, shivery and high. The cables nudged in to momentarily flirt with the Seeker’s tongue before gliding out to rest on Skywarp’s bottom lip. It trembled under them, trying to mouth the ends, trying to complete the final connection. It would blow Skywarp’s mind and overload his body. He was so close -- _so close!_ “Don’t tease!”

“Are you my master?” the ex-Prime asked softly, and something richly painful crossed Skywarp’s face at the pointed question. Optimus blinked innocently. “My lord, I obey only my master’s commands.”

The cables began to lift away, and denied pleasure became very like agony. “Please!” Skywarp bleated, whining.

A crooked smile came and went: point made. “Of course,” red optics deepened, darkened, lenses blowing wide as Optimus bent low to whisper against the sparking cable tips, _nearly_ against Skywarp’s mouth, “my lord.” 

The ex-Prime’s lips descended, parted – and connected.

 

 

[* * * * *]

_[ **A/N:** Next up: a distinct lack of sex. Skywarp reveals what he did to get his hand in the cookie jar this time, Soundwave tries to find where the pillows went, and certain Combaticons prove themselves the worst harem guards in the history of ever. ]_


	2. Pt. 2: Eunuch

**Title:** Tyrant of the Seraglio, Pt. 2  
 **Warning:** READ THE WARNINGS, PLEASE  
 _Torture (medical and not)_  
BDSM (dominance/submission, slavery)  
Coercion  
Mutilation/Gore  
Author overthinking a joke-fic  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Continuity:** IDW/G1 (AU)  
 **Characters:** Soundwave, Megatron, Optimus, Breakdown  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** _Soundwave – “The sound of music”_

 _From TFWiki –_  
vorn = 83 years  
deca-vorn = 8.3 years  
stellar cycle = ~7.5 months  
orn = 1 Cybertron day  
joor = 6 hours  
cycle = 1.25 hours  
breem = 8.3 minutes  
klik = 1.2 minutes

mechanometer ~ meter  
kil ~ kilometer

 

**[* * * * *]**

He missed music the most.

It had never seemed important before. No style of music had appealed to him prior to Megatron’s overthrow. It wasn’t that he’d _disliked_ music, but it seemed to be one of the more useless of the various types of data available. His job had always been surveillance and information processing. His body had been a specialized assessment tool, constantly filtering through layers of sound and transmission that made up Cybertron. Music had often been an obscuring background noise, requiring one more refinement of the gathering process. It had rarely provided any information on its own. 

He couldn’t recall ever listening to it for its own sake. 

Regret for that panged sharp and aching through his spark these days. These days, he couldn’t listen to _anything._

When his audio receptors had first been removed, Soundwave had steeled himself against the inevitable comedy of errors. Being unable to hear would result in much laughter -- perhaps even anger – at his expense. It was inevitable. Communication was only the most obvious and immediate problem. Misunderstandings would prevalent and humiliatingly awkward for the ex-Communication Officer. He wouldn’t be able to hear sounds of warning or danger, like footsteps around a corner or the bleep of an airlock opening. 

His hearing had been the price of survival, however, and he’d tried to prepare himself for life without sound. A difficult life, but better than the alternative.

He hadn’t been able to prepare himself for the other consequences. How could he have? He’d known it would be a challenge, but he had never experienced deprivation to this extent. He hadn’t known how completely it would throw him off. The lack of sound had been bad, but it was the absolute absence of input that broke him. 

Although the memories seemed inapplicable these days, he remembered losing his hearing before. In war, damage happened. Soundwave had blown out his audios on the battlefield under sonic assault, burnt out his transmitters on extended attacks, and even deliberately disabled the hardware himself in order to foil software hacks. He remembered it being vastly irritating. The damage had interfered with his duties. But even then, it had been battle damage: incomplete and usually physical in nature. He’d been able to compensate for the temporary handicap. It had, after all, been temporary.

The removal of his audios wasn’t temporary. It had been complete. He’d gone under the surgeons’ hands expecting to wake up deaf, but they’d been so much more thorough than that.

The surgery had gone well beyond mere hearing. His audios were removed, but also every transmitter and receptor in his entire body. That included comm. link-ups, old-fashioned radio relays, speakers, network drops, inbuilt antenna, and even his interface cables. His chest was an empty hole, gutted of transistors, reel-processors, and the connector cables for his Cassette docks. The docks themselves had been unbolted and taken out, as well as the motors and heads for playback. He was a carrier mech no longer able to carry a single symbiote. The sparkbonds to his symbiotes were still there, but the surgery had taken out his actual ability to host. He couldn’t exchange data with anyone, much less a symbiote. 

His _vocalizer_ was gone, down to the language setters lining his throat. They had given him the ability to mimic the minute clicks and scuffs of a tongue and dental molds he didn’t have. He’d frequently been accused of speaking in a monotone, but without the setters in his throat, his voice would have truly sounded like a computer’s. Now he had no sound at all. With those gone, he couldn’t even beep affirmative/negative. Telegraphs and binary data squeals weren’t physically possible anymore.

Worst of all -- if only for the sheer havoc wrecked during their removal -- the router points for his wireless capabilities were gone. Telepathy among robots was really just an extreme sensitivity to the electromagnetic fields put out by every living robot. Soundwave had been a specialist among specialists; his wireless telepathy had been a dark secret before the war and a source of great fear during it. He’d been notorious for his ability to locate, intercept, and translate neural circuitry field-pulse. His transceiver bank stole the data streams right out off mechs’ electrical current, stealing information from even the most firewalled processor. 

Or rather, it _had_ been able to do that. The whole system had been taken out during the surgery. That…had caused its own set of unpredicted problems. He’d expected, even been grimly resigned to, the removal of his audio receptors. Specialized as he was, it was a logical way to neutralize one of Megatron’s most loyal supporters. Removing his vocalizer as well had been…unexpected, but again, logical. His telepathy had required a much more extensive removal, and one he hadn’t anticipated. He should have.

His surgery and subsequent enslavement hadn’t been an idea sprung from cool-headed, rational logic. Slavery had been the result, but the goal was revenge, and physical vengeance hadn’t been complete enough. Revenge had made nullifying his capabilities a minor goal. The surgery hadn’t been a means to an end; Soundwave could have come back online deaf and mute, but still somewhat useful.

But he hadn’t. He hadn’t been meant to be useful, ever again. The surgery had been the end itself: _crushing_ him. Punishing him for millions of year of betrayal and loathing and confinement. Using him as a slave had been tacked on when it was decided keeping him alive was a better bargain. Slavery was an afterthought, an instance of his master’s cruel sense of humor at play. The slave-band was a statement: _Full circle, Soundwave._

His master liked making unspoken statements. The new capital reflected that. The resources for building an ornate palace had been allocated elsewhere, part of a goodwill showing for the newly-surrendered Autobots, but stark, clean lines of the resulting buildings had ended up a visual reflection of the new Decepticon regime. Outside of the richly decorated harem, the capital building resembled an office building more than a palace. An opulent office building in the very center of the rapidly-expanding Cybertronian Empire, true, but it was really nothing more than a glorified government building. A building his master lived in and ruled from. 

Arguably, that made it a palace no matter how little it looked like one, but by the time resources had become abundant enough for palace-building, the not-palace had become an unspoken statement. It said something about the new regime’s commitment to rebuilding Cybertron, perhaps even a denial of the Iacon Senate’s pre-war excesses. Underlying that was the fact that visitors found its simplistic style and ruthlessly barren halls intimidating. The building was a perfect example of architecture focusing attention instead of diverting it; Starscream stood out from it in a vivid blaze of color and sound. Just how he liked it, really.

He’d already been a holy terror before…well, before. Encountering him, here and now as Soundwave hurried through the halls, would be enough to skip the slave’s pump with sudden, magnified fear. Not that there weren’t enough reasons to fear the Seeker, but encountering him in the plain halls sort of felt like running headfirst into a visual explosion. 

Soundwave didn’t have the luxury of avoiding him anymore, however. It wasn’t like Starscream didn’t know where to find him, or couldn’t order him into his presence on a whim. The slave-bands welded onto both his arms were there as ownership claim -- and punishment if the slave foolishly disobeyed. The inhibitors wired into Megatron’s circuitry damped his code and prevented behavioral deviations. The slave-bands Soundwave wore were meant solely for punishment. They mainlined into his pain sensors. 

Disobedience wasn’t an option. Running away was a privilege he no longer had. His master had delighted in taking away from him every right a free mech laid claim to. The more inherent, it seemed, the better.

Physical torture would have been tolerable, or even the naked exposure of a full hack. Losing all his communication hardware in one prolonged surgery had stripped away abilities Soundwave hadn’t known he relied on, but it had still been acceptable, in a vanquished-foe kind of way. Bodies could be rebuilt, after all. Soundwave had been the Decepticon’s Communications Office for over 9 million years. He’d betrayed his former position under the Senate to take up Megatron’s cause. Physically removing his specialized abilities was an appropriate penance for his crimes. He simply hadn’t predicted to what lengths revenge would take that penance.

Uninstalling the software and removing the connections had disoriented him, but he’d come online after the surgery to a blank world. Not just removed, but permanently blocked; he had nothing left by the memories of sound and transmission, because his body no longer even recognized their existence. The connection points had been soldered over, prevented reinstallation. The software had been wiped, and the download protocols hopelessly scrambled by a complex circuit-bypass. It manually jumped the primary permits, denying Soundwave access to his own code. Updates to would have to be done by a professional medic or someone with the new primary-user authority keys – namely, his new master. 

He’d woken up crippled and slave-banded, his very programming informing him it belonged to someone else, now. He’d been reduced to something even lower than a deaf-mute slave. He’d been _neutered_.

Over the course of 167.9 vorns, he’d come to understand his master’s sharp, digging point. He understood why he’d been humbled. It didn’t make it easier to bear, but at least there were reasons for his suffering. There were calm, well thought-out reasons behind all of it. 

That almost made it worse, if that were possible.

He _understood_ Megatron’s enslavement. The former gladiator and miner retained an aura of power and former glory. Finely detailed and polished to a mirror shine, the ex-leader of the Decepticons would have turned heads in the Iacon Towers at the height of the Golden Age. Handsome? Unmistakably so. More alluring, however, was Megatron’s uncompromising determination to never break. Tales of his many escape attempts circulated widely, ever awe-inspiring in the re-telling. Rumor of his insolence and refusal to submit pumped the tales along. 

Slave or not, Megatron was still the ideal Decepticon: powerful, unyielding, and kept from tearing apart those who chained him by only the thinnest means of control. Everyone knew that Megatron would rip his master apart given half a chance, even after 167.89 vorns of slavery. Keeping the former Decepticon leader alive was statement of prestige. A smugly unspoken gloat: _Look at my slave. Am I not more powerful?_

Keeping Megatron as a harem slave had a devious sort of efficiency to it. Not only did it display control over the former tyrant’s regime, but it took full advantage of Megatron’s remarkable charisma and body. Only the best of the best on their master’s new Cybertron were granted the supreme reward of access to the harem. To be a reward worth striving for, the harem slaves had to be extraordinary. 

Megatron was certainly that. He had been legend, and his notoriety had only grown after his downfall. Cybertron as a whole vividly remembered his eons of rule. Now, he was the undomesticated wild beast of the harem, magnificent and untamed. 

Mechs outdid themselves for the opportunity to come and see for themselves the chains of jewels and flowers keeping the snarling creature down. There were strict rules for interfacing with him, which were entirely necessary but made the experience no fun. Yet that wasn’t why Decepticon, Autobot, and Neutral alike fought to be noticed and commended. They wanted to be granted the chance to go inside the harem to see. They wanted the visceral thrill of standing in the presence of a feral, fiercely beautiful mech. They wanted the excited sense of danger from the _option_ of touching the ideal Decepticon, like visiting a petting zoo containing a hungry T-Rex.

Megatron held himself aloof, just barely restrained from destroying them all, and some mechs came just for that. They wanted to feel the rollercoaster-ride of enjoyment from fear for their lives. They came to give the ex-leader an order and have it grudgingly obeyed, not to frag him. Megatron had obeyed fewer orders in the berth than a harem slave rightly should. On the other hand, he’d also stood on one foot, sat on the floor, and fetched a ball. He’d glared in such a way that the mechs who’d dared give such orders had nearly overloaded on the spot from the danger. They’d wobbled out of the harem afterward on a pleasure-high just from surviving the encounter. Actually touching the ex-tyrant in a sexual manner probably would have made them explode.

Optimus never got such commands. Or rather, no matter the order, he didn’t mind. He’d stood on one foot gravely, fetched the ball with a smile for the game, and sat on the floor as if all the world were a chair. He was enthusiastic, impossible to embarrass, and a wonderfully dutiful harem slave – but even Skywarp handled him with a strange sort of reverence. 

Megatron and Optimus were as different as night and day, but oddly, almost as closely matched. Optimus was desirable in a different way altogether, but there was still some of Megatron’s untouchable allure in the ex-Prime. His untouchable state centered on who he’d been rather than what he’d become. The Matrix Bearer had passed on the Autobot Matrix of Leadership to Ultra Magnus, but everyone knew that it had refused to Choose another Autobot as Prime. Optimus was the ex-Prime, leader of the Autobots, but he led the Autobots nonetheless. 

The mechs who came to the harem approached him with an odd sense that they could never violate him, never fully touch him the way interfacing with a regular mech allowed. 

The ex-Prime was a slave, yes, but a highly valued one. He was the gorgeous, cherished gemstone of the harem. Megatron came from the opposite end of the spectrum: admired as the brutal savage, the untamable beast of legend endlessly pacing his cage. On the rare occasions they’d been taken out of the harem and paraded before Cybertron’s ogling optics, not even the bravest mech had dared so much as _leer_ at them. They were intensely vulnerable, toys for the taking, but -- conversely -- protected by their owner. Nobody would risk laying a finger on either of them without permission. 

Beyond the punishing shocks and code-deep restraints built into Megatron’s slave-band, the two harem slaves weren’t hurt. No beatings at all, ever. Their master even refrained from issuing degrading orders beyond the confines of the harem walls. Megatron knelt to their master, and Optimus wore chains, but never in public. It was an aspect of their master’s possessiveness, but also a strange sort of dignity. They were tools and treasured toys, not whored-out prisoners of war. It was a fine line, but a line never crossed.

That line didn’t exist for Soundwave. Megatron and Optimus had been spared for their use in an elaborate system of rewards, but that meant the physical revenge had fallen on Soundwave. He was the next available target. Possibly the more hated one. Soundwave had always obeyed Megatron’s orders, standing as the Decepticon leader’s closest subordinate, but he’d fulfilled those orders with an air of inescapable competence that had made him…disturbing. Megatron’s fusion cannon and combat skill had inspired a fear approaching awe. Soundwave’s telepathy and information-gathering skills had just creeped everyone out. 

That creepiness had been physically removed. He’d been cast down, lower than even a harem slave. He was, in fact, the one was one who polished the jewel’s setting and mucked the beast’s cage. He was the menial labor. He was the servant to the slaves. He was the harem eunuch, with no status or worth outside of its walls. 

Therefore, he was afforded none of its protection. Outside the harem walls, Soundwave was a target for every bit of petty thuggery that wouldn’t permanently offline him. Inside, he was subject to his master’s revenge, served cold and painful. 

Megatron had his own problems as a slave. The ex-tyrant had adjusted poorly to life as a harem slave, and his long, slow road through learning obedience had prevented him from helping Soundwave. Even if he could have. Megatron had few privileges, and he’d had none at all when the welds on their slave-bands had still been fresh.

Which left his ex-subordinate essentially on his own. As he had been since the moment the virus had infiltrated his systems and knocked him out, 167.9 vorns ago. 

Regaining consciousness had been a horrible experience. At first, Soundwave hadn’t understood what had happened. His body had been feverish, running hot and overclocked from the knock-out Trojan that had somehow slipped through his defenses, but his firewalls had merely crashed. They hadn’t been hacked. He’d been restrained by statis cuffs and access-blocks, but there were Decepticons standing guard on him. Not Autobots. Decepticons. 

Decepticons whom he had few files on, little or no blackmail, and that was very, very strange. He didn’t recognize the guards. He should have. He had information on everyone in Decepticon ranks, down to the grunts, or so he’d thought. 

That’d alarmed him more than the restraints. It was a gaping hole in his information, calculated and concealed over a long period of time. 

When the usurper finally put in an appearance, he’d understood. He’d understood the meticulous planning, the nameless guards, the missing data, and even why he hadn’t been hacked. There had been no need to. He was Megatron’s Communication Officer, his invisible hand, but there were ranks above his and more undetectable spies hiding among the shadows. Decepticons made for strange bedfellows, and political allies went beyond strange into kinky.

Oh, Soundwave had understood. He’d been taken out first because physical force hadn’t spearheaded this coup. Megatron’s staunchest supporter was also the one who would have put the pieces together before it was too late. Soundwave had understood, and he had despaired. 

Time had passed too quickly. That ‘too late’ came all too soon. 

Locked down into immobility, heavily guarded and fed taunting slips of gossip, he’d lain in the prison awaiting death. Once Megatron had been overthrown, the extent of the underground planning had been revealed, and Soundwave’s spark had clenched into a knot as more immobile forms were carried into the prison. The powerhouses, the loyalists, the Decepticons who might have fought for Megatron’s place; all of them disabled and imprisoned in the cells beside him. _Too late._

Starscream had relished stopping in just to inform him of the newest neutralized threats. The list of names had been demoralizing, recited cheerfully from the behind the brilliant lights that kept his symbiotes from sneaking past the guards. Soundwave had felt the Cassetticons, faint and angry, at the limits of his telepathy. The circuit-block drilled through his helm kept him from contacting them, but the sparkbond was deeper than circuitry. Their fury had come through. He’d been bound to a table and trapped in an enemy prison cell, but there had been hope so long as they’d been free.

Then came the day when Megatron was slave-banded in front of the assembled ranks, the people of Cybertron, and Soundwave had heard the roar of the crowd even from the depths of the prison. The fury became something faster, more frantic: fear. It had trickled through the sparkbond and infected him, but he had nowhere to go. The countdown had started, and he had no means to race the clock.

Megatron had been enslaved. That had made Soundwave’s life forfeit. First, the enslavement of the old leader. Then, the executions of the loyalists would begin.

The new regime focused on efficiency. Brute-force warfare was Megatron’s favored tactic, but there were other options: more subtlety, better usage of available resources, even the possibility of peace. In order to streamline the process of shifting tactics, the new regime had to do away with the last. Megatron became a symbol and a valuable tool. Instead of wasting time trying to convert mechs who would likely betray the new regime anyway, the decision came to just do away with them. It’d been a more…satisfying decision. It’d been personal vengeance reasoned into logic, disposing of those who’d gotten in the way for so long.

Soundwave was at the head of that disposal list. He’d lain there, paralyzed, and his symbiotes’ fear had compacted over his spark. 

Instead of execution, there had come the frailest wisp of hope from the sparkbond. Suddenly, two Decepticons were there rearranging the blinding lights: Hook and the sinister red shininess of Knock Out. Soundwave had hated the way his spark whiplashed into hope as the two medics prepped for surgery. He hadn’t dared hope for release, but he’d guessed what had happened even before Knock Out gleefully filled in the juicy details. 

His Cassetticons had bartered their loyalty for his life. Or possibly for their own lives. Frenzy and Rumble wouldn’t have suffered much beyond the initial shock, being that they hadn’t originally been Cassettes, but the death of a carrier sometimes dragged the symbiotes offline, too. He’d known that. Ravage, Buzzsaw, and Laserbeak had likely convinced the new Decepticon leader that their abilities were worth their lives, their lives were worth their fealty, and it’d all be his for the small price of Soundwave’s life.

The quality of that life was…questionable.

He was alive. He was inexpressibly glad to be alive. It was just, well, the life of a slave was bad enough. The life of a harem eunuch?

Soundwave didn’t run through the halls, but it wasn’t because he didn’t want to. He’d hustled out the door as soon as Skywarp had entered, but it took him almost 2 breems of fast walking to reach the dispensary. Optimus pinged refinery orders the moment guests arrived, so the tray would be prepared and waiting. That wasn’t the problem. The dispensary drones would log the tray contents to micron, but he had enough control to not spill things nowadays. The scanner at the harem entryway would verify delivery. That wasn’t a problem anymore. There was the slight risk that Skywarp would finish before Soundwave got back to the harem, but Optimus was fully capable of keeping the Seeker entertained until the highgrade arrived. So that wasn’t the problem, either.

The problem was that 4 breems outside the safety of the harem was 4 breems waiting for the axe to fall. If Soundwave were physically able to, he’d have sprinted through the halls. 

Some grudges lingered. If Skywarp’s reward were common knowledge, Soundwave could expect to run a gauntlet of mechs bent on revenge for past discipline, blackmail, or whatever indiscretion they felt like making a helpless slave pay for today. Speed was his only defense. There was only one entryway to the harem, and if he didn’t make it back before someone staked out that hallway, the results would be most unpleasant. He knew that all too well.

He’d been far, far slower in the first vorns of slavery. Taking out his transceiver banks hadn’t just taken away his telepathy; it had removed entire subsets of coding for basic functions. Hook and Knock Out had been under instructions to remove anything relating to communication. They had, as they helpfully informed him via writing afterward, considered cutting off internal system communication entirely. They’d ultimately decided bestow their own strange brand of mercy on him, choosing instead to merely disconnect and burn out any subsets running through his transceiver bank.

Oh, he’d been slower alright. He’d barely been able to move, the first stellar cycle. He’d had to relearn motor skills at a level even more basic than code. Without access to his own CPU, he hadn’t been able to rewrite the missing code or adjust his function parameters. He’d had to learn how to use his limbs when he didn’t have the keys to the systems controlling them. He’d mapped out work-arounds for the system links eventually, but it had been an horrendously slow process. Moreover, his master had taken frequent, vicious pleasure in erasing the bits of repairwork self-repair managed to cobble together. Handicapping him further had been an amusement, especially when it made him miserable all over again.

It’d taken him a deca-vorn to relearn how to crawl. Crawling about on all fours didn’t seem like much of an accomplishment unless the alternative was inching along the floor. Which is what Soundwave had been doing, at least when he had enough control of his body to do so. His master never grew bored with tormenting him, even when he did his best to remain stoic, but there were other entertainments available. Megatron hadn’t been able to do much for him, but distracting their master as an easy task under the circumstances. The more training Megatron required, the less attention was paid to Soundwave’s suffering.

There weren’t words for how grateful he was to his ex-commander for that humiliating sacrifice. 

He could walk now. 167.9 vorns later, and he’d regained enough control of his body to sometimes manage a clumsy jog. He tended to trip and fall when slowing down again, however, which wasn’t acceptable when carrying a tray of highgrade and energon goodies. Soundwave was not allowed to spill anything. Even a micron of highgrade missing from the harem order would be calculated into ration-grade amounts and subtracted from his already meager energon allotment. His master took a perverse joy in watching him starve.

Had, in fact, watched and enjoyed it quite a few times over the course of the years. Soundwave had spilled a lot of highgrade between his first shaky orns of crawling and the vorns it’d taken him to relearn balancing a tray and walking at the same time. A _lot_ of highgrade. 

Not all of it had been the fault of his lack of coordination. Outside the harem walls, he was fair game to anyone who felt like giving him a push or a punch. They wouldn’t go so far as to drink the harem’s highgrade, but Soundwave had been held down and forced to watch while the cubes were tipped over in front of him, one at a time. He’d knelt in the spilled energon and used his fingers to write frantic, begging script in the pink fluid as his attackers taunted him with the last cubes. 

Most of the time, it didn’t work. Sometimes, however, they’d given the cubes back. 

The bitterest lesson he learned from those encounters was that sometimes, just sometimes, begging _worked_. Begging rubbed in how much power he lacked now, which made the lesson all the harder to swallow. Every time, it was a spiteful _’Are we not merciful?’_ reminder of his past position and current slavery. 

He didn’t need the reminder. The returned cubes were gifts, and Soundwave always, always traced words of gratitude at the feet of the merciful. Because it was the times when begging didn’t work that he starved. 

Begging never worked on his master. His master didn’t care who was responsible for the spills. All he cared to see was the waste, and waste was punished. The slave’s shaking limbs and vulnerability had caused many spills. With as much punishment as he’d earned, Soundwave should have deactivated from starvation vorns ago. 

He should have, but he hadn’t.

He’d gone hungry. His empty tanks had been a draining, consumptive pain for stellar cycles at a time, but he’d survived. He was still alive.

The mechs who entered the harem touched Optimus reverently, still treating him like the Matrix Bearer and leader of the Autobots. Soundwave felt that reverence himself, but not because Optimus had been Prime. Megatron wryly accused Optimus of being the ‘patron saint of interfacing,’ but Soundwave... 

It had taken slavery with the ex-Prime to discover Autobot compassion extended even to Decepticons. And the kindness didn’t make Optimus weak, no matter what Megatron still claimed. The Autobot had kept him alive on sips of his own rations, dregs smuggled from the highgrade cubes Soundwave was forbidden to taste, and even an occasional energon goodie hidden away during the ex-Prime’s berthplay. Megatron grumpily did likewise, but only Optimus went so far as to plead, graceful and pretty as a natural pleasurebot, for pity on the starving slave’s behalf. 

Their master did listen to the ex-Prime, even if he didn’t always grant favors. Their master knew everything that went on in the harem. He had to know the lengths his tame Autobot went to save his whipping ‘bot. But sometimes -- again, just often enough to make bitter hope rise -- begging worked. If Megatron had submitted enough to also plead, Soundwave might have, _might have_ , been spared, just for acting as a chink in the ex-tyrant’s uncompromising independence.

But Optimus had stood alone as Soundwave’s personal savior. 

Soundwave had no way to defend himself. He was pathetically thankful for any protection whatsoever. Reverence? Slag that. The feeling edged closer to adoration every orn. 

Soundwave acknowledged that his master owned him. Denial of that fact would be sheer stupidity. He was a slave. He was also Megatron’s soldier, even after all this time. Soundwave’s loyalty hadn’t wavered. Were they to break out tomorrow, Soundwave would remain at Megatron’s right hand. But in his spark, secret and hidden, he knew who he really served. 

He was his owner’s slave, the harem’s eunuch, Megatron’s officer -- but he was Optimus’ servant. 

There was only so much protection a harem slave could provide, however, which was why Soundwave hurried. Inside the harem, most of the visitors abided by the ex-Prime’s wishes and left him alone, especially if he was servile to the point of invisibility. Megatron, seething danger and barely leashed, put himself between less respectful visitors and the defenseless eunuch. Soundwave made a point of anticipating those particular visitors’ needs and catering to them as best he was able. There wasn’t much hope of appeasing mechs Pit-bent on abusing him, but sometimes, like begging, it worked.

It was better than nothing. Because that was all Soundwave had outside the harem: nothing. He hurried because peace and rebuilding Cybertron didn’t make Decepticons any less inclined to dominate the weak, and it certainly hadn’t made the Autobots forget millions of years of civil war. So he ducked into the dispensary, stuck his wristbands in the drones’ scanners, and picked up the prepared tray all in one smooth move. It was a practiced motion, and he had indeed practiced it. When the equivalent of half a stellar cycle’s worth of energon allotment lay in his hands, he did everything possible to avoid spilling it. Starvation or fueling hinged on dodging a beating today, and only speed would prevent said beating. 

He paused at the door to cautiously peer out. That required sticking his head further out than he would have liked, but all he really had left to detect an ambush was his sight. And even that had been severely limited after --

No time for bad memories. The coast was clear. Soundwave headed for the harem at his quickest walk. He tried not to slow down, but he tried even harder to keep the cubes from sloshing. His head turned constantly, visually scanning for danger. The hall lights were dimming gradually, signaling shift-change. That made it more difficult to see, but Soundwave preferred the scant shelter of the shadows to standing out like a target under the lights.

It was late, past closing for his master’s preferred operations shift. Maybe he’d get lucky. There weren’t many mechs who stayed in the not-palace when the main meetings and audiences ended. Those who did were mostly maintenance staff or dronemasters. Even if he did run into someone, maybe they’d think he was fetching refreshments for his master. While that could still lead to a beatdown, he might be allowed to set aside the tray first. Hurting him carried no consequences, but only an idiot wasted the Decepticon leader’s personal highgrade. 

Of course, anyone hanging around this wing of the building had to have come intentionally. Had to know who was currently reaping his reward in the harem, and it wasn’t Soundwave’s master.

Sound had always been Soundwave’s most prominent sense. Without it, perception narrowed to the few remaining senses, and his sight had limited his awareness of his surroundings even _before_ he’d been half-blinded. So there was only a rippling tremor through the floor to warn him that his range of vision had been directed in the wrong direction.

He stiffened and threw a glance back over his shoulder, staggering slightly as the move threw his balance off. That was the least of his concerns when he spotted the navy and cream Lamborghini Countach drifting around the corner behind him. The floor-tremor increased as the Stunticon revved his engine. It could have been threat, or even excitement. Perhaps fear. 

Soundwave snapped his head forward again and risked trying for a shuffling jog. Concentrating on controlling his own limbs kept him from tracking the car’s progress, but Breakdown wouldn’t have come to this wing unless he was looking for Soundwave. And Soundwave knew why.

The tremor turned to hard vibration a moment before the Stunticon swung his backend around in front of him and whipped through transformation. Soundwave stumbled to a halt, desperately clutching the tray as one foot scuffed on the floor and nearly tripped him headfirst into the smaller Decepticon. Pink fuel slopped, scattering a couple drops across the tray before he could recover his balance, and Soundwave immediately backpedaled. 

A blue hand caught the front of the tray, threatening to pull it from his grasp and dump it on the floor.

He froze. He didn’t dare move.

No. Not Breakdown. Anyone, even Drag Strip, but not Breakdown! Drag Strip could at least be distracted or flattered into letting Soundwave go, and all it would cost was some pain and abject groveling. Breakdown…Breakdown wouldn’t let him escape.

Soundline offlined his optic sensors and dropped his head submissively. His world, already silent, went completely black. He would have no warning, but he also couldn’t see Breakdown any longer. It was voluntary, if only partial, sensory deprivation. The darkness seized his tanks with fear, terror crawling up the sides to burn at the base of his intake valve, but it was his best bet. Keeping his visor lit would aggravate Breakdown’s paranoia. The Stunticons’s sensitivity to being watched had been a source of annoyance and idle amusement during the war, but the tables had turned. 

The Stunticon who’d been convinced Soundwave had done nothing but watch him, stare at him, now had the power to stop him. _Full circle, Soundwave._

He kept his head down and prayed as he never had in all the millions of years of war. It’d been 167.9 vorns. Surely he’d learned his lesson. He’d paid for his betrayals and done penance for his crimes. Someone out there had to start showing him mercy. Primus? His master?

This never got any easier.

The tray tugged from his shaking hands, and Soundwave had no choice but to let it go. He was slave to the harem slaves, the lowest of the low. He couldn’t disobey or struggle. Something tapped against the side of his visor, and he dropped his head further. Another tap, harder and more insistent. Soundwave reluctantly brought his optic sensors back online, just barely lighting them enough to peek upward. He didn’t raise his visor enough to meet Breakdown’s optics -- that would have been unacceptable -- but enough to see the bottom half of the Stuncticon’s face. Reading and writing were the one form of communication not yet taken from him; through total necessity and patient repetition by both Megatron and Optimus, Soundwave had expanded that to become an adept lip-reader. 

Breakdown’s lips weren’t moving. The Stunticon never bothered to give him orders, but Soundwave had hoped.

It’d been 94 and a quarter vorns since Motormaster had first been rewarded for service to the Empire. The other Stunticons had hung around these halls, leeching pleasure off the gestalt link as their team leader enjoyed Optimus’ talents, but Breakdown had fixated on Soundwave. Dead End and Wild Rider hadn’t cared what Breakdown started with the former Communications Officer, but Drag Strip had considered it a game to win: who could hold the harem eunuch down and pop the most optic sensors. The _popkish_ of squished sensor bulbs had been excruciatingly agonizing.

Breakdown had laughed along with his competitive teammate, but his laugh had been framed by a malevolent smile. Soundwave hadn’t been able to hear the laughter, but he clearly remembered the smile. Through the blazing sparks of color and agony shooting through his head, he remembered the smile. Every time, _every_ time Motormaster earned a reward, Breakdown waited for Soundwave outside. In the 94 and a quarter vorns since that first time, he’d _kishpop_ ped his way halfway through the dense socket-field of bulbs behind Soundwave’s visor like a human child playing with bubblewrap. He never hurried, fingers picking at the sensor bulbs almost delicately, and he always wore that same self-satisfied, manic-tinged smile.

Soundwave’s tentative hope bombed as he looked up. _That_ smile. 

The slave collapsed to his knees and folded forward, hands fumbling for the Stunticon’s ankle tires. Primus, master, _someone_ \-- please, not again. Please! Sound had already been taken from him. Let him keep his sight! 

The floor vibrated with displeased tremors from Breakdown’s engine, but Soundwave only shook harder and pushed his face into the Stunticon’s feet, nuzzling desperately. Yes, he’d cringe and scrape to retain what little vision he had left. He was a good slave, an obedient slave, and if Breakdown would only spare him, Soundwave would never look at him again. He’d beg for that order, because the alternative was blindness!

But he was a slave. He had no right to deny a free mech. When Breakdown knelt and forced his head up, Soundwave had to comply. He tried to distract himself, grabbing for anything that would brace him for the pain as Breakdown pried off his visor. Anything to take his mind off the blankness encroaching across yet more of his senses. Anything to not think. 

All he could think of was music. He missed it. He missed the way it had once vaguely annoyed him, because he’d thought of it as meaningless sound produced for no other purpose than distraction. He needed that, now. He needed distraction. If he could have anything, right here and now, it would be a song to keep his helplessness at bay. Strange as that seemed, he was too hopeless to ask for more. It’d been a long time since he’d thought in terms of rebellion. 

A simple melody surfaced, just notes in a scale he’d heard once in the background of a more important recording, and he latched onto it as though it could numb his panic. _Do Re Mi Fa So La ~_

It repeated in his head while he knelt and trembled, stripped of his visor and so, so vulnerable. _~ Fa So La Ti Do Re Mi Fa ~_

Fingertips daintily singled out a sensor bulb. 

_~ please no no please La Ti Do Re ~_

Breakdown’s smile never changed. His fingertips shifted and began to squeeze.

_~So La Ti ~_

_popkish_

It was obvious when the music was no longer enough to distract him. There was no sound, but sound wasn’t required. Body language hadn’t been taken from Soundwave -- yet, anyway.

 

 

 

 

**[* * * * *]**

**[ A/N:** _Next up: seriously, where are the pillows? Skywarp’s hard on the furniture. Also, a distinct lack of sex, despite what the Combaticons want._ **]**


	3. Pt. 3: Guard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Soundwave’s white knight shows up, despite himself. He proceeds to do harem chores in his own unique way.

**Title:** Tyrant of the Seraglio, Pt. 3: Guard  
 **Warning:** READ THE WARNINGS, PLEASE  
 _BDSM (dominance/submission, slavery)_  
Coercion  
Mutilation/Gore  
Memos  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Continuity:** IDW/G1 (AU)  
 **Characters:** Soundwave, Megatron, Optimus, Skywarp, Breakdown, Brawl  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** _Brawl – “dropped connection”_

_From TFWiki –_  
vorn = 83 years  
deca-vorn = 8.3 years  
stellar cycle = ~7.5 months  
orn = 1 Cybertron day  
joor = 6 hours  
cycle = 1.25 hours  
breem = 8.3 minutes  
klik = 1.2 minutes

mechanometer ~ meter  
kil ~ kilometer

 

**[* * * * *]**

 

Blast Off was a dead mech. Lousy fragger didn’t know it yet, but when Brawl caught up with him…

Brawl stormed through the halls like a -- a -- uh, stormy thing. Slag, he didn’t know. All he knew was that he was on-shift again after a two-cycle break, and when he caught up with that sad excuse for a teammate, he was going to beat basic courtesy through his thick head. Brawl had had it up to his turret mount with Blast Off dumping duty shifts on him!

Yes, Blast Off had some issues. Like, a lot. Like, all of Swindle’s copies of _Galactic Purchasing Guide: Guns & Ammo Edition_ combined. That could probably be said of all the Combaticons, really, but Blast Off was six kinds of special just on his own. Yeah, well, Brawl was sick of it. He understood it, but he was sick of it. 

Of course, giving him a piece of his mind about things would be fairly impossible. Slagging shuttle’s comm. signature had dropped off the network, and he was long gone from the building by now. If he came back in time for his next shift, they’d still be missing each other by breems. Brawl wouldn’t be able to catch up to him for orns, at this rate, and even he wasn’t dumb enough to think Blast Off would so much as give him the time of day. It’d be a minor miracle if he could get within shouting distance of the shuttle. 

Blast Off made Onslaught look positively clingy when it came to physical contact and actually talking to people, and the Combaticon leader had a habit of avoiding people he didn’t want to see. He just sort of…spammed them with memos. Dozens of memos. It was like a memo-barrage on days Onslaught didn’t want to talk, and Primus help a mech who had to deal with him in person on those days. 

Brawl, Swindle, and Vortex had put together an interpretation spreadsheet for Onslaught’s various grunts for those days. Also, a map of allowable physical proximity depending on the tone of the grunts. It was a communication guide for the surly and terminally stuck-up. Swindle sold copies to whatever city district Onslaught was inflicted on that deca-vorn, and it sold well. 

Blast Off? Onslaught was like Blast Off Lite. At least Onslaught deigned to send memos or grunt. Blast Off just sort of took one look at a mech and dismissed him from his world. After that, good luck trying to get the shuttle’s attention ever again. He was more likely to take off for orbit than allow anyone within a fifteen mechanometer radius, and that was on a _good_ day. 

It sucked atmosphere being gestalt-linked to a couple of loose screws. _Especially_ when Brawl had to work with one of them on an daily basis. Every orn, it was a crapshoot whether Blast Off would finish his slagging shift or just randomly take off because he thought guard duty beneath him today. It was never consistent, and slag if Brawl knew what would set the fragger off. All he knew was that the shift roster pinged him out of recharge because he was suddenly back on-shift two cycles after finally getting _off_ -shift. 

Shuttle or not, Blast Off wouldn’t be able to handle an angry tank on a rampage. Although, okay, it wasn’t like Brawl didn’t know he’d calm down after a cycle or two on-shift. He had a short temper, but not a long one. By the time Blast Off meandered back from wherever he’d vanished to, Brawl would probably settle for some grumbling and ill-tempered muttering. 

Brawl rounded a corner and continued, uh, storming. Like a stormtrooper? No, wait, that wasn’t right. Eh, not important. He decided to start practicing his muttering at an appropriately loud decibel -- just under a shout -- as he stormed. Blast Off was gonna get it. Dead mech walking. Flying? Probably a better bet. Blast Off didn’t walk in orbit. Heh, funny image, that.

The fragger would clock in early, at least. He usually didn’t make Brawl do two full shifts in a row. Not that it really made up for buggering off in the first place, but being gestalt-linked to each other meant Blast Off sometimes remembered to feel guilty later. Well, maybe not ‘guilty,’ per se. More along the lines of ‘inclined to placate the angry tank who occasionally linked into his very circuitry.’ 

Although if the link-up thing were true more often nowadays, Blast Off might not have been such an inconsiderate bastard in the first place. He’d been almost tolerable back on Earth, back in the days Bruticus combined every other week for combat. The Combaticons had all been closer, not scattered across a planet and put on separate duties that kept them apart for stellar cycles at a time. Swindle and Vortex had been more controlled because Onslaught rode their afts about teamwork, and Blast Off had sometimes even spoken to Brawl outside of combat, and --

\-- and it didn’t really matter anymore. The war was over. Onslaught did city management and municipal plans. Swindle had more businesses than common sense. Vortex -- eh, who knew what he did these days. Blast Off was theoretically a harem guard, but more like an occasional bystander to actual duty. 

And despite what he’d thought about all this before going into peace, Brawl didn’t really miss them. 

Reality check: Brawl liked routine. He loved combat -- don’t get him wrong, it was fun! -- but routine was predictable. He liked predictable. Safe was novel as well, and kind of a welcome change from risking his life following somebody else’s orders. He wasn’t the smartest ‘bot on Cybertron. He was just smart enough to know he wasn’t all that smart. In war, that meant he was the grunt who followed orders, not thought them up. Outside of war, that meant he had a thing for schedules and sticking to them. 

Compared to the other Combaticons, that made him the one with simple needs. Onslaught needed things to think about. Vortex needed things to poke at. Swindle needed things to sell. Blast Off needed…who the slag knew. Things to flounce about, or read, maybe. Brawl just needed to be told what to do and when. A steady paycheck was nice. Time off to goof around on the datanet, start a fight or two in the bar, and sluff around in his quarters was all he really wanted out of life. 

Stability was something he’d briefly gotten from Bruticus, but the war was over. Brawl had come to the conclusion that he didn’t want war. He didn’t even want his unit back together, because he didn’t miss them. He just wanted a place to work, a set schedule, and good times during his time off.

That, and a fellow guard who wasn’t a total aft out of the blue. “Seriously, Blast Off. What the frag?” Brawl did his best grumbling while going to work. Usually because going to work was his biggest grievance. “It’s my rusted off-shift. You **know** it’s my off-shift. Then you check the frag outta here like it’s no big deal, but the roster’s pingin’ me on auto and you **know** I’m recharging ‘cause tomorrow’s my long shift, and what’s this slag?” 

That last grumble was more like an actual question. Not much of a question, to be honest, but Vortex was the interrogator of the group. Brawl just did walking into the middle of things. Also: shooting. He added the occasional fistfight or grenade to spice things up, but questions? Not really his area of expertise. But since Brawl already knew what this slag was, it was mostly just an announcement of his presence: _Brawl is here. Start looking like you’re guilty of stuff._

Breakdown took his cue like a pro. He did the guilty look like he’d actually done something wrong. 

Which was stupid, because all he’d done was mess around with Soundwave. “Aw, c’mon, again?” _Grumble, grumble_. Brawl, er, not-stormed down the hall toward the smaller Decepticon. “Don’tcha ever get bored with hittin’ somebody who’s already down?” he snapped at the Stunticon. Anger had already lost most of its burn, oddly enough. He could never figure out why he couldn’t stay angry longer. 

Annoyance had replaced the anger. Everybody had taken a potshot at Soundwave at one time or another, but Brawl didn’t care. He just didn’t like Breakdown. Stupid Stunticons got to stay together, but nooo, not the Combaticons. The _Combaticons_ got spread out across the whole Primus-fragged world because, outside of combat, the other Combaticons were as reliable as HunGrr standing watch over an energon refinery. So no more Bruticus, because Bruticus was dangerous when Onslaught started his plotting. Therefore no more actual team, because what were the Combaticons without Bruticus? 

All of which left Brawl standing guard by himself while Blast Off ran off to do whatever he wanted. And, just to rub it in, the Stunticons’ resident paranoid loser showed up to make trouble on his watch.

Breakdown shifted nervously, never quite meeting his optics and already looking for a quick exit. What a twitchy car. At least Swindle only got twitchy when his latest stash of illegal swag got confiscated. “H-he’s not down. Not yet.” A brief flicker of optics, like the little ‘bot wanted to be defiant and couldn’t quite manage it. “I’m just making sure he won’t, um. Get back up.”

Brawl gave him a black look, making sure he could see him _watching._ The twitchiness worsened. “All you gotta do is give him an order, and he won’t get up again. Like, y’know, ever.” 

He knew that wasn’t what Breakdown meant, but he’d been putting up with Breakdown’s obsessive slag since he’d gotten assigned to the harem. The job was kind of, uh, required because of the loyalty programming, but aside from all the fiddly little rules he’d had to learn, it was a cushy gig. Brawl liked it most days. Good schedule, decent quarters in the back wing of the same building, and the occasional day off when Onslaught remembered he was supposed to be on the roster, too.

Then there were the days when Blast Off blew the schedule off completely, and Stunties showed up. Brawl was in no mood for this slag today. The car shuffled his feet, and Brawl just watched. He could see the Stunticon’s optics moving, searching for an escape, but he deliberately stood in the way. In this hallway, there was the choice of a window, the harem entrance, or a wall of Brawl. Choose wisely, fragger. 

Soundwave knelt there, shaking hard enough to rattle his chin in Breakdown’s hand. Even if Brawl didn’t know that Breakdown had a weird fixation on blinding the slave, he’d have been able to see what was going on. Soundwave’s visor had been discarded, exposing the little sensor bulbs -- over half of which were now shattered and dead. A silvery trickle of repair nannies leaked steadily out of the underlying socketboard, swarming the new damage. Wouldn’t fix them, though; tiny shards of glass decorated Soundwave’s shoulders and the floor under his knees. Repair nannies could fix cracked glass, but they couldn’t generate new bulbs.

Shame about that. Soundwave was gonna lose depth perception soon if Breakdown kept popping optic bulbs. Brawl didn’t particularly care if Soundwave was deaf, blind, mute, and limbless, except that meant he’d have to do even more work. Brawl liked his routine. Every time somebody screwed with the slave, that messed up his schedule.

Watching deepened to a glare. Brawl was _fed up_ with this shift already, and he’d only been on duty three breems. No slagging Stuntie was gonna get in his way tonight. “Look, you. He ain’t gonna suddenly get loose and stalk you.” Oo _whee_ , lookit him twitch. Brawl could of phrased that better, he could tell already. “Tell him to keep his head down around you and call it quits. Really. This is gettin’ crazy.” 

More so than normal for a Stunticon, but Brawl had enough tact not to say _that_ out loud. Trying to reason with a crazy ‘bot wasn’t the greatest plan, but starting a fight with Stunties was like stepping on an anthill: the little things got everywhere and were as annoying as a rust infection. In fact, the more Brawl thought about it, the more irritating he found the whole deal. Always the same! Soundwave got his aft kicked by anyone who wandered by, and then Brawl had to pick up the slack because Blast Off took off for reasons unknown, and _frag them all._ Why did Brawl end up with the short end of the stick every time?

Breakdown mumbled something in the direction of the floor, but the hand on Soundwave’s face had tightened to a clamp. The slave’s hands were clenched into shaking fists pressed to his own thighs, and the remaining bulbs were flaring erratically. Right. Deaf and sensor-blind. Probably didn’t have a clue what was happening or who was there, since Brawl was standing on his blind side. 

“Every time I come out here, there’s a mess,” the Combaticon complained, picking his way forward. Stepping in bulb glass was gross. It was kind of…squinchy. “He’s always a blasted wreck after you’re done with him, too. Then I have to do his job, and why the slag should I do a slave’s work? That’s why we **got** a slave.” Brawl hated fetching and carrying. He gave the tray of highgrade on the floor a peeved look. If he had to do refreshment duty on top of guard duty, Blast Off was going to get a kick up the afterburners. 

The tray at least explained why Blast Off had taken off for parts unknown. Soundwave didn’t leave the harem unless he was ordered out, and…yup, when Brawl queried the in-building datanet, a time block in the harem came up as reserved. Blast Off hated guard duty during reserved times. The walls between the entry room and the harem proper were thin. It didn’t bother Brawl, but Blast Off was kind of a prude. He said it was because he wasn’t a voyeur, but Brawl thought he was just uncomfortable hearing mechs get what he couldn’t have.

The thin walls were also the reason Swindle wasn’t allowed on guard duty anymore. One too many sound recordings turned up on the market. Greedy son of a Toyota didn’t know discretion unless it hit him upside the head with a bag of credits. Onslaught would have stopped him, but Onslaught was always busy with other stuff halfway around Cybertron now. He only stood guard seven or eight times a stellar cycle, all told, because that stupid loyalty programming could only be tweaked so far. Starscream had managed to change Shockwave’s programming enough that the Combaticons didn’t have to obey Megatron anymore, but they were still compelled to keep him ‘safe.’ At least one of them had to stand guard on him at all times, or the programming started to spaz. 

But only Blast Off and Brawl didn’t try pushing what they could do under that guideline. Brawl didn’t care enough, and Blast Off was too slagging uptight. Onslaught plotted, but he was kept too busy to do much these days. Swindle had tried -- well, he’d tried a lot of stupid things. Recordings, vids, even a tactile scan. He’d nearly gotten himself terminated when he’d been caught selling intimate pictures of Optimus. And Vortex? A _harem guard?_ Nobody was that stupid. 

Leaving Brawl to cover everybody’s shifts, because nobody else could be trusted. Even Blast Off, because Blast Off took off. Schedule said ‘Blast Off,’ but here Brawl was to save the day. Again. 

Oh, well. It had a strange routine to it, and at least nobody was shooting at him. 

Yet, anyway. He gave Breakdown another dirty look. “Well?”

_Mutter mutter mumble._

“Aw, gimme a break,” Brawl growled, storming forward like a tank who’d had it up to his treads with this slag. Yes, exactly like that. Could exasperated tanks storm? This one did. Breakdown turned wide optics up to him, finally turning to face him, but Brawl was in his face before he could skedaddle. “No more of this freaky stalker-car slag, ‘cause it’s gettin’ on my last nerve running into you out here every other joor. You tell him what you want, and he’ll do it. Haven’t had him disobey me yet, an’ I’ve given him a lotta orders.” He grabbed the Stunticon’s forearm to make him let go and –

\-- ooookay. Soundwave on the floor. All over his feet. It was like having a doormat made of ex-Communication Officer, only more…grovelly.

Something dull and warm unfurled at the base of Brawl’s spark chamber. It was a familiar feeling. Routine, almost. “See?” he said to Breakdown. He pointed downward at the slave attempting to become one with his feet. “Trust me, the mech ain’t gonna start planting cameras in your quarters.” Whoops, probably the wrong thing to say. And, yep, there went the twitching. “Just give him an order and get the frag outta my hallway,” Brawl said, giving up on reason. 

“Not your hallway,” Breakdown said resentfully.

Brawl stepped over Soundwave and loomed over the smaller Decepticon. He didn’t threaten. He didn’t need to. He just _looked_. 

_Twitch twitch._

Brawl had just enough tact not to snicker, but he knew his visor gave him away. Fortunately, Breakdown could barely meet his optics for more than a few seconds at a time. Anger gave way slowly to paranoia, and the Stunticon finally took a step back. That was it. Victory for Brawl! 

Breakdown’s shoulders hunched. His face darkened, but he kept his mouth shut as he edged past the tank. Brawl deliberately turned, always keeping his visor on him, and the paranoia deepened. 

Soundwave cringed when the Stunticon grabbed his shoulder, but he didn’t resist. Breakdown dragged him upright and slapped him until he lit his optic bulbs, which really didn’t make sense to Brawl. If the point was to tell the slave to not look at him, then why do that? He’d never seen Soundwave so much as raise his head around Breakdown, but he was still the evil boogie-man for the Stunticon. Talk about senseless fixation. Sometimes Brawl just wanted to punch mechs and tell them to stop subscribing to issues of _Stupid Weekly_. 

“You keep your optics off me, or else,” Breakdown said in Soundwave’s face, and his false bravado wasn’t intimidating in the least. Well, at least not to somebody who could throw his tires out the window. Soundwave probably had a different perspective. “Got it?” The slave dipped his chin in a nod, and Breakdown slapped him again. Another bulb burst in a _popkish_ of sparks and glass. The nodding became much more vigorous. “You’d better. When I catch you next time – “

Oh, come on, really? Was he really planning to come back right after Brawl finished telling him to get the slag out? The level of disrespect was astounding. Brawl’s temper had already been simmering, but that just made it boil over. “There won’t **be** a next time,” the Combaticon snarled, grabbing the arm going back for another slap. He used it to heave the smaller Decepticon around and up against the wall. “ **You** get your stupid paranoia and your stupid self outta my hallway. I see **you** again, and I’ll use your steering wheel as a Frisbee.” 

Breakdown struggled futilely against the forearm Brawl used to pin him to the wall. His engine made Brawl’s joints ache, and that just pissed him off more. He leaned heavily, and Breakdown’s air intakes closed with a strained squeak. “Got it?” Brawl mimicked, getting in the Stunticon’s face. He made sure to _stare._

Just like that, defiance drained away. Breakdown never did have any courage when up against a superior foe, which was, oh, just about any other Decepticon. “Got it,” the little Stuntie mumbled.

Brawl nodded and let him go. “Good. Now get outta here.” 

Breakdown got outta there.

Brawl watched him go with a weary sense of satisfaction. Blast Off would probably pitch a fit about him picking fights later, but he was finding it difficult to care what Blast Off thought anymore. It wasn’t like he ever saw the shuttle outside of passing on duty these days. He saw Onslaught more, and he only saw Onslaught when the team leader showed up for his rare guard shifts between municipal district assignments. Swindle and Vortex wouldn’t care, and anyway, he hadn’t seen either of them in half a stellar cycle or more. Eventually, the gestalt links would compel them to combine for the sake of their spark stability, but until that day…yeah, hadn’t really occurred to him before, but Brawl would kind of be happier not seeing the other Combaticons. 

Brawl hadn’t been a Combaticon in a long while. Not since the war ended and they went their separate ways. About time he started figuring out who he was nowadays, if he wasn’t a Combaticon. 

Brawl, harem guard? 

…eh. Not exactly glorious, but there were worse fates.

Speaking of which. “What’re you lookin’ at?” he said at Soundwave. The slave was kneeling in the middle of the hall, clutching his visor in both hands as if he didn’t dare put it back on without permission. Brawl didn’t recognize the look on his face. He knew what fear looked like, but that looked more like…realization? Of what? Weird. 

“Put that back on, and get back to work!” The words were accompanied by curt gestures that conveyed his meaning. One of the drawbacks of having a face mask was that it made lip-reading impossible, but they’d had lots of time to learn how to understand each other. After so long dealing with the deaf/mute slave, Brawl had gotten used to pantomiming everything he said. Which was really why Brawl was puzzled by that look. He’d thought he’d seen all of Soundwave’s expressions by now. 

Funny look or not, the slave scrambled to obey, snapping the visor back on and wobbling to his feet. He took a few shaky steps toward the tray on the floor, and Brawl dragged a hand down his face. It was obvious Soundwave was in no shape to carry anything, and if he spilled the tray -- which he would -- he’d get his rations cut again, and then Optimus would get all sad and Megatron would be pissy and fraaaaag. Breakdown always left his messes for Brawl to clean up.

“Gimme that, scrapheap,” Brawl sighed, walking over to grab the tray right before Soundwave fumbled it. The slave cowered away, arms coming up defensively, but Brawl just shifted the tray to one hand and started toward the harem entrance. Pink fluid sloshed around the tray, and Brawl slowed so it wouldn’t spill off the tray to the floor. “Aw, scrap.” He looked at it critically, trying to estimate how much highgrade had already slopped out of the cubes. Enough to make Brawl’s life really slagging annoying. “Slaggit. Why you gotta be such a klutz?” Not that it was really Soundwave’s fault. He was walking better than he had been, but he still kind of looked like a marionette. He didn’t have the greatest control over his own body, especially after somebody got done knocking him around. Stupid Breakdown. 

“Frag. I don’t wanna deal with those two slippin’ gears just ‘cause you walk like a drunk.” The tank thought of the last time Soundwave had gotten his aft beat and muttered curses to himself. A whole cube had spilled down the door of the dispensary, and the slave had been on quarter rations for orns. The harem had been a miserable place. 

Brawl glared at the tray and shook it a little, making some quick calculations. Moody harem slaves plus extra duties -- because Soundwave would be out of it -- equaled Brawl pulling yet more extra shifts because Blast Off sure wasn’t gonna stick around for that. The alternative was fixing the energon shortage. Normal harem slaves plus Soundwave doing his job equaled Brawl getting his time off. 

Okay. Fairly obvious which was the better equation, here. 

The tank nodded to himself. He lengthened his stride as they went around the last corner before the harem. The entrance was an open entryway leading to the guardroom. It was _supposed_ to be staffed at all times to guard the door leading to the harem proper, but slag if Blast Off seemed to care about that little rule. Not like it really mattered; who would dare go in without permission? The slave-bands were keyed to the inner door and windows, so it wasn’t as if Megatron could get out and wander the halls. The place sure would look nicer if Optimus could, though. Mech had a sweet little aft. 

...right, energon. Brawl was thinking about energon. 

He shook his head and glanced back impatiently. Soundwave was barely keeping up. “Hurry it up, we don’t have all day!” 

The slave caught his hand gestures, if not his words, and redoubled his efforts. Unfortunately, that still didn’t improve his shaken coordination. When Brawl took a sharp left at the entryway, the slave stumbled over his own feet at the threshold and fell flat on his face with a resounding _crash!_

The tank just shook his head and didn’t look back. He went over to the desk and set the tray next to the screen projector, then started going through the bottom drawers. “Swear I had a ration or two in here somewhere. You been snackin’ on my stash, Blast Off?” The bottom two drawers on the left side gave him handful of energon goodies with dust stuck to them, a broken stylus, and four gamepads. No ration cubes. “Slaggit, gotta clean this thing more often. I hate cleaning. Why can’t the maintenance drones clean in here?” He switched to the right side.

Meanwhile, Soundwave had apparently picked himself up off the floor and made it to the desk, because he was standing there watching Brawl. His half-offline visor looked uncertainly between the tray and the tank. After waiting a while, he hesitantly reached for the tray.

“What are you, crazy? Wait a klik!” Brawl slammed a hand on the desk between Soundwave and the tray, and the slave recoiled so violently he lost his balance. “Serves you right,” the tank snickered as the slave fell again. “Here I am tryin’ to help you, and you’re gettin’ in my way.” 

The last drawer was stuck, and Brawl had to yank it open. It gave with a loud _cronk_ of tortured metal, but that was barely heard over the sound of somebody having a very good time on the other side of the inner wall. Brawl paused to listen for a second, trying to identify who it was by sound alone. He could have pinged a question at any of the other guards currently up on gossip, but where was the fun in that? Sounded like…familiar truck engine, that was Optimus, and somebody was moaning. Too high to be Optimus. An engine rip-roared in a way grounders’ just couldn’t, so, hmm. 

“Flyer,” he decided. “Who’s got favor today, huh?” he asked the slave currently using the edge of the desk to pull himself upright again. Soundwave froze, looking cornered, but Brawl hadn’t expected an answer. “Can’t be Thundercracker, ‘cause his engine’d have the chair dancing,” he mused as he sorted through old ammo boxes. “Thrust is overseein’ that fusion plant project over in Polyhex. Maybe he got ahead of project specs? Huh, why the frag do I have .679s in here. I don’t even have that gun anymore.” He tossed the box aside and blinked as it…sloshed. “What the -- oh. Oooh, right.”

Combaticon Maxim Number Four: hide anything valuable, because Swindle would steal anything not nailed down. 

Sure enough, the old ammo box had two ration-grade cubes hidden inside. He couldn’t even remember why he had them here anymore, unless they were from back when rationing was still in effect. But that had been vorns ago, well before the first of the power plants started producing surplus. Maybe it was from when he’d bought his last upgrade; credits had been tight for a while, and he’d been depending on the free guard ration cube instead of the better grade he could buy himself. Yeah, that sounded right. Had they really been in the ammo box that long?

Brawl gave the cubes a dubious look and shook them again. “Ration grade doesn’t go bad, right?” Highgrade got better with time, but that stuff was distilled to the point of being pure energy. Midgrade sometimes got that funky gritty particulate if it were left too long, and lowgrade would coagulate into a nasty syrup consistency that’d give a mech’s systems the hitches. Ration cubes were manufactured to last, though. Didn’t taste too good, but it did the trick. “Can’t be all that bad yet,” Brawl muttered as he flipped the top off the first one. He passed it under his nasal sensors and shrugged. “Smells like rations. Eh. It’ll do.”

Soundwave jerked forward when he reached for the tray of highgrade next, but Brawl shooed away the anxious hands fluttering over it. “Cut it out, junker. We ain’t got all day to do this. Now, lemme see, what can I use…” He glanced around, wondering what to do about the highgrade sloshing around the tray itself, and grabbed the ammo box again. “There we go. Here, you, make yourself useful. Go get something to wipe down the cubes.” The slave stared at his gestures helplessly. “Frag, you’re useless. You! Rag! Fetch!” He lifted one of the little highgrade cubes and shook it illustratively, dripping glowing pink onto the tray. Soundwave took a timid step toward one of the wall cabinets, and Brawl nodded. “Good. Now, move your aft!”

The slave hustled. Brawl just sighed his vents and wondered why he bothered. “The things I do for a quiet joor,” he grumbled. Another moan underscored his bad day, and he furrowed his visor in the direction of the harem door. Well, that wasn’t Thrust. One of the Aerialbots? Weren’t they off-planet on one of the colonies these days? 

“Who’s in charge of the spaceport embassy?” he mused as he set the highgrade cubes on the desk and began using the flap on the ammo box to squeegee the tray. There wasn’t a lot of spillage, but it was still a significant trickle he tipped into the nearest cube. “That’s gettin’ a lotta attention on the news. Lotta new aliens landing on Cybertron nowadays. No, hold on,” he used the box to point at Soundwave, suddenly remembering. “That’s a grounder. Not an Autobot, but he’s got wheels on his altmode.” How had he forgotten that? Hrmph. So much for that guess, anyway.

The slave had stalled out when Brawl pointed at him, but he cautiously continued forward when the tank went back to muttering and scraping the tray. His hands shook a little when he reached for the first cube, and he just held it for a moment, looking like he expected to be hit, before wiping down the outside with a rag. He couldn’t seem to look away from what Brawl was doing.

Which was eyeing the level in the highgrade cubes. “Not too bad. Should be enough to pull this off.” Picking up the open ration cube, Brawl did his best to be delicate. He needed to pour juuuuuust a little in. Just…a… _bit_.

Argh. No, no. Too much.

He whirred his fans, reaching for patience, and grabbed the next cube. He could use it to level off this one. 

“I hate this slag,” he complained, concentrating hard. He could reload a minibot’s pistol no problem, but Brawl just didn’t _do_ ‘delicate.’ “Why am I doing this, again?” Mystery Guest was making muffled noises of pleasure, which was hardly an answer but it was all Brawl was going to get. “That’s it,” he told Soundwave while just barely dripping one cube into the other, “next time you’re on your own. I’ll put up with Blast Off being dead weight over trying to level these stupid things off. Not like I’m not -- used to -- **there** we go.” Satisfied, he swished the cube to mix in the ration grade. It dissolved easily into the glittering highgrade, hiding the deception and hopefully not tasting too bad in the mix. 

The cube went back on the tray. Soundwave had wiped it down, too, and when the cubes were all restacked, it looked fresh from the dispensary. Brawl felt quite proud of his solution. Ta-daa! No spilled energon, no cut rations, no moping harem slaves, and he’d get his time off. Good. 

The slave was staring at the full cubes with an expression of amazement, and Brawl cuffed him lightly upside the head. “Get a move on, dumbaft! Somebody in there wants refreshments!” He made shooing gestures.

Soundwave stumbled to one side with the hit, then hurriedly straightened up and gathered up the tray. He stood there for a moment just looking between the full cubes and the tank. After a second, he bobbed a quick bow. Huh, odd. Brawl couldn’t remember him doing that before. The ex-officer turned and shuffled for the inner door, and Brawl blinked after him for a moment.

“…okay. Right.” The tank shook his head and followed to watch the scanner at the door critically. Soundwave gave him a nervous look and presented the tray to the scanner. A bright yellow fan of light swept through the cubes and -- “Yes! I’m brilliant!” Brawl pumped one arm as the slave slumped with relief. 

The door slid open, and Brawl blinked again as Soundwave half-turned to give him another quick bow. “Fraggin’ weird,” he told the slave, deciding that ignoring him was the best idea. 

He peered past the bulky blue mech, automatically checking for problems. Also checking for who it was taking Optimus for a tumble today. “Skywarp? Aw, c’mon, really, can’t I get a break today?” he mumbled, flicking his visor up in a brief plea for patience from Primus. Skywarp would be a slagging annoyance on the way out. The Seeker was a nutcase on a good day, but he’d be bouncing with post-overload giddiness by the time Brawl had to deal with him.

The tank shook his head and completed the quick check of the room. Berth occupied, check. Happy visitor, check. Optimus, check. And Megatron was sitting over _there_. Excellent. 

Brawl nodded to himself again and keyed the door shut. Refreshment tray delivered, check-off accomplished, and that was that. He could kick back and relax for a while. He wandered back over to the desk and began a half-sparked attempt at cleaning it out. He hated cleaning, but there wasn’t much else to do at the moment. Brawl’s only real responsibility was to keep Megatron from touching or being touched by anyone, and the ex-tyrant’s wristband was pretty good at keeping him in line these days. 

It’d been a real duty vorns ago, back when Megatron fought every single slagging thing. The solution to his behavioral problems had seemed fairly simple to the Combaticons, but apparently a beating per day didn’t keep the disobedience away. At least not according to their new leader, who did cunning plans and manipulation in a completely freaky way. The beatings hadn’t been allowed. It was restraint only when it came to disciplining Megatron. Strength code-dialed back or not, that really hadn’t been fun for anyone involved.

But the plan had been sound. Megatron’s fierce defiance had sullenly ebbed. Brawl hadn’t been stupid enough to want to before, but now he certainly didn’t want to get on their new leader’s bad side. Megatron had been tamed to hand by everything _but_ violence, and that creeped Brawl out but good.

He’d only gotten what was going on in hindsight, when Megatron’s field had begun to crackle with a weird kind of desperation. Deca-vorns of absolutely no touching had done something to the ex-tyrant that Brawl hadn’t understood at first but totally got afterward. The wrist band zapped the slave if the proximity sensors were tripped, but Megatron had been picking fights with the Combaticons just to get restrained by the end of three deca-vorns. The threat of longer had effectively brought the ex-tyrant to heel. It’d taken a while, but there’d been no question Megatron had lost that fight well before he finally conceded.

Physical contact didn’t seem terribly important…until it was forbidden. Brawl wasn’t exactly the touchiest of mechs, but even he’d felt a little bad for Megatron by the fourth deca-vorn. By the end of the first vorn, he’d wanted to smack some sense into the ex-tyrant. 

There had been absolutely no touching allowed. Optimus had been learning the ropes of being a harem slave, and he’d taken to it with all the expansive energy available to a mech who’d led the Autobot for millions of years. There’d been times Brawl had slouched in this very desk chair, struggling to wrestle his systems down as the ex-Prime’s wild electromagnetic field pulsed lust and pleasure all the way through the harem suite. He couldn’t imagine what’d it’d been like to be locked into the same slagging room with that -- but be unable to _do_ anything about it!

Sure, Optimus had gotten control over himself sooner than later, but still. The mech could seduce a blank wall when he thought it was his duty. And Megatron was stuck living with that. 

Brawl really kind of admired Megatron for lasting as long as he had, honestly. It’d been a losing battle the whole time, but he knew he wouldn’t have held out nearly as long.

He flopped back in the chair and sighed air out his vents. Skywarp was making unintelligible noises inside the harem, and it didn’t make Brawl any more inclined to clean. He didn’t _mind_ overhearing mechs have their fun, but it wasn’t helping his mood any. Ugh. Why did Brawl always get stuck working on his lousy days? 

Or maybe he had so many lousy days because he was working. Which was a thought that wasn’t going to improve his mood anytime soon. Fragging Blast Off. Why couldn’t the stupid shuttle clean out the desk during his shift? It wasn’t all Brawl’s mess. Okay, so most of it was, but not _all_ of it!

He absently blipped a request at the dronemaster on duty, only to get the standard denial. Maintenance drones weren’t allowed in this wing. Megatron was only ‘tamed’ in the same way a chained Sharkicon was: give him half a chance at escape, and he’d leave dead bodies in his wake. Giving him a crack at reprogramming drones was just _asking_ for an evil drone army. 

That was only exciting the first time it happened. The second time nearly got Brawl’s head sucked off by a cleaning vacuum set to ‘Kill,’ and that was just embarrassing. 

The fact that it’d been Onslaught’s plotting that had given Megatron access to the drones that time really hadn’t endeared the Combaticon leader to the tank. He’d refused to combine into Bruticus for half a stellar cycle after that. Brawl might be many things, the majority of them dim-witted, but he was nothing if not stubborn. He’d dodged Onslaught’s memos for ages, refusing to forgive him until…why _had_ he forgiven Onslaught? Come to think of it, Brawl couldn’t remember. Maybe Swindle had bought him something shiny.

Slag, he’d probably just forgotten why he’d been holding a grudge in the first place. Half a stellar cycle was a long time to hold out against his own combiner team. Megatron thought withholding physical contact felt bad? Mech didn’t know a fraction of the pain of a denied gestalt link.

Speaking of which, the links were really starting to _itch_. 

Brawl’s grumbling picked up. Onslaught was involved in a project…somewhere. Blast Off was probably in orbit. Swindle was too busy running everything and selling what he didn’t run. Vortex -- it was best nobody knew what he got up to. Point was, Brawl was on his own until the other Combaticons remembered that they were supposed to be a combiner team in more than name. 

For lack of a better target, Brawl chose to blame the Stunticons. 

“Stupid Breakdown.”

Engines growled on the other side of the wall. The dull roar was kicking steadily upward.

“Stupid Skywarp, too.”

The harem door opened.

“..the frag?” Grumbling derailed, Brawl sat up and blinked at the inner door. Megatron couldn’t even approach the door controls, and Optimus was clearly quite busy. That left the one slave who had to be ordered on pain of punishment to so much as set foot outside the harem.

Soundwave shifted uncomfortably under his incredulous look. The blue slave bent his head meekly and shuffled out of the doorway, letting it close behind him, and Brawl’s bewilderment only grew. If Soundwave had been given an order, he’d have scurried forth immediately to obey. Instead, he was slowly walking toward the desk as if he weren’t quite sure where he was going. What the frag was he doing?

Maybe something had broken? Wouldn’t be the first time Skywarp had caused more trouble interfacing than he did on the battlefield, but usually Brawl could hear it happen. He made a _Yeah what?_ gesture at Soundwave, but the slave only bowed his head further and stopped beside the desk. If Brawl didn’t know better, he’d say that the blasted mech was nervous about something. Indecisive, maybe. What the frag could a slave have to be indecisive about? That was one thing slavery and guard duty had in common: other mechs did all the decision making. Brawl and Soundwave just followed orders. 

It made life very simple. Right until it wasn’t, which happened when Soundwave started giving him those timid glances like he was about to make a decision of his own. That didn’t seem like a very good idea.

“Primus, gimme patience by the bucketload,” Brawl grouched, starting to rise.

To his surprise, Soundwave gently put a hand on his shoulder-tread and pushed him back into the chair.

And then _he climbed into Brawl’s lap._

The tank was so surprised, he actually let it happen. “What the…you…” The half-broken visor peeked upward at him, positively shy, and Soundwave ran his hands down treads, across chest armor, and lower. Fingers lingered suggestively on panels that hadn’t gotten lingered on in a very long while. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kiddin’ me, mech!”

Amusement suddenly flooded Brawl like sunrise over the city on a clear day, and he started laughing. His arms automatically wrapped around the boxy blue mech as he roared with laughter, less holding him in place than just holding on to _something_ , anything. The fact that his hands ended up on Soundwave’s aft was purely accidental. This was the funniest slag since Swindle tried to con him into drilling holes in the harem wall for cameras. Brawl knew he wasn’t the brightest bulb in the light fixture, but c’mon! Seriously?

“Really?” he coughed, laughter and air intake colliding in passing. “I mean, **really**? You gotta be kiddin’ me. You just gotta. Primus, I’m gonna die laughin’. This’s too much. Aw, frag, I gotta tell somebody about this slag.” He pinged a request at the night roster, seeing who was on duty. This was too awesome not to share. The harem eunuch was hitting on him! It was like something straight out of a comedy skit!

“Whaddya think you’re gonna do?” he wheezed out his vents, still laughing too hard to cycle properly. “You ain’t got leads anymore, dummy!” Slag, there was nobody he went to the bars with on the roster tonight. This was gonna make one fragtastic tale to tell the next shift! His laughter tapered down to chuckling, and he leaned forward to _tunk_ his forehelm against the slave’s collar armor. “Moooron.”

The empty, gaping rectangle right before his optics was hilarious proof of just how absurd this was. It’d once been the Communication Officer’s greatest asset: the Cassetticon tray where his army of tiny spies rested and reported. Now it was all gone. He could _see_ where Soundwave’s connection points had been soldered over and machined flat. Even the nubs where leads had once been were nothing but smooth metal. Soundwave had been neutered.

The slave had frozen the moment Brawl started laughing. It was like having a tense statue in his lap. Brawl couldn’t think of anything less sexy. It was like a piece of furniture was trying to seduce him.

Seriously, this was the funniest slag ever. 

The fingers had stayed, however. After a moment, they even dared a cautious stroke at the panels they’d stopped on.

Chuckles amped back up to heaving laughter. “Okay,” Brawl gasped, “okay. This I gotta see.” He released the panels and leaned back in the chair, letting go of the slave’s aft in order to balance his elbows on the chair arms. That left his body wide open to whatever happened. “Go ahead,” he challenged. “Whatcha gonna do now?”

Soundwave couldn’t see or hear the words, but Brawl’s body language was obvious enough. The blue slave risked a look up but refocused his attention quickly. His hands delved into the open panels and drew out Brawl’s interface cables.

There weren’t the standard 72. Brawl, no matter what he’d grumbled to himself earlier, was physically a Combaticon. That couldn’t be changed. His cables were meant to hook into his teammates’ connections, quickly and efficiently enough to combine into Bruticus in the middle of battle. 72 hook-ups would have created a tangled mess instead of a gestalt. Instead of 72 thread-thin cables, Brawl had four thick cables meant to link up a lot more than mere datastreaming. The energy transmission was intense, but cables like these were meant for straight spark-energy transfer.

It’s what made interfacing with combiner members far more of an adventure than most mechs could handle. It’s why most combiners kept their ‘facing in the team. It’s why Brawl so rarely got laid, slaggit. Also, if the blasted cables didn’t get used enough, the gestalt programming made them _itch_. Like they did now. Stupid specialized equipment.

He glared resentfully down at Soundwave’s hands as they took out his cables. Maybe letting the slave try…whatever it was he was trying…wasn’t a good idea. The urge to hunt down his team and combine had been building before, but now it truly _bothered_ him. What the frag did Soundwave think he could do, anyway?

The slave got the four cables fully unwound and paused for a moment. Brawl almost shoved him away.

A moment later, he was really glad he hadn’t. 

Fingers carefully slid along the lengths, coiling the cables around knuckles and palms. Field-charge flared out, deliberately pushed into the cables as Soundwave concentrated hard. Brawl knew the slave was concentrating, because he could _feel_ all that concentration being bent on him, on his cables. The charge fluttered, trying to spread across Soundwave’s plating the way energy typically did, but the ex-officer nearly shook with the effort to hold it in one place. The boxy blue mech hunched, his head dropping over his hands as if the bundled cables were prayer beads, but Brawl could feel the unstable ventilations from his intakes as the slave labored. Charge reluctantly gathered, struggling the whole while to escape. 

It promptly zipped up the cables. Soundwave’s thumbs played with the connector leads at the tips, and Brawl jerked in his seat.

Guuuh. This was _not_ how gestalt hook-ups were supposed to conduct charge. Brawl couldn’t care less. This was…this was scratching an itch that’d been driving him crazy. Primus knew nobody else was lining up to ‘face him, so the rest of the world go find a cliff and jump off it. 

His hands came down onto Soundwave’s thighs, pinning him in place. At the same time, Brawl’s head fell back along the top of the chair. Aw, yeah. Why the frag hadn’t he thought of this before? 

…probably ‘cause he hadn’t even known it was possible. Um. Yeah. That was a good reason. 

He groaned as charge-laden hands firmly massaged up his cables, working the circuitry inside with pressure and heat until Brawl’s spark chamber bleated ready alerts. It was approaching optimal transmission levels, and ah, frag, this was hot as melted slag. A charge-overload was surface release, but that was still a metric aftload more overload than he’d been getting lately. Data interface would be nice, but Brawl’d take this any day. 

A shudder wracked him when Soundwave meticulously wriggled every wafer-thin lead on the cable tips. Any day. What had he been pissed about before? This was the best shift ever.

When had he shut his visor off? Brawl lit it again so he could watch the blue mech in his lap finger his cables. Just _watching_ this was enough to turn his treads. It was a personalized erotic film right in his lap. Nobody ever paid this kind of attention to his pleasure. The other Combaticons just stuck it in: wham, bam, thank you ma’am. Then they went off to do their own thing once the gestalt links finished required integration. Swindle used to take his time when it’d been them against everyone else back on Earth. He’d called it ‘networking.’ But that was long over. Vortex was good for a bit of fun, but he was never around. Even when he was, it wasn’t anything like this. This was _all_ about Brawl.

The undivided attention was half the turn-on, truthfully.

Now that he thought about it, Soundwave wasn’t so bad. Kinda ugly in a boxy way, but Brawl wouldn’t be winning any beauty contests either. Some basic maintenance to fill in the dings and dents would help. That, and a polish. Mm, maybe have the slave polish _him_. Soundwave did it for the harem slaves, so it wasn’t like he didn’t have experience. 

Or, hey, Soundwave could clean the desk! 

An entire vista of possibilities suddenly spread before Brawl. The desk? His quarters! He’d finally get somebody to scrub that old oil stain out of the floor panels! Root out the piles of ammo boxes from under the table, and dust the musty gearspider webs from the corners. And when he was in the mood, he could get his cables catered to right in the comfort of his own berth. Afterward, a hands-on detailing in the wash racks before he went out to hit the bars? Slag yes! Frag him upside-down with a building girder, why hadn’t he thought of this before?

Excited, Brawl snatched at Soundwave’s chin. This was even better than impending overload! The slave flinched, hands too entangled to raise in defense, but Brawl hardly felt the sharp tugs on his cables. He was too busy turning the mech’s face from side to side, examining him like a new gun upgrade from Swindle. 

“Yeah. Yeah, this could work,” he said to himself. The half-broken visor was a turn-off, but optic bulbs were slagging cheap. He could buy a full set from the stim-vendor outside his favorite bar, in all likelihood. Why not? The guy had practically an entire emergency ward for sale after the fights started at closing time. “Don’t wanna keep buying ‘em, though. Gonna have t’ -- nn **ngh** \-- ” Right there. Blue fingers had pulled just right, straightening a kink he hadn’t known was bugging him until it was gone. Charge zapped from end to end. 

Brawl’s motor turned over with a grinding growl. “Frag yeah,” he groaned, head falling back again. He didn’t let go of Soundwave’s chin, however, and watched him through the pulse of energy levels mounting. The slave kept total concentration, but he was beginning to shiver slightly as his own systems protested stripping charge from his field. Energy fields weren’t meant to be isolated this way. Forcing charge to his hands probably tricked the sensors into registering false input. He was doubtlessly being assaulted by a barrage of error messages. That’d explain why the slave’s hands felt so warm, anyway.

How the slag was Soundwave even managing this? Brawl had thought CPU access had been locked away from him. Well, not that field charge was strictly about code programming, but it’d taken the crippled mech vorns to relearn limb control. Unless establishing machine-level work-arounds had gotten him that much closer to his own basic functions…huh. A thought for another day, because yeeeeah. Brawl wasn’t gonna waste his time wondering right now. He was more of a _Seize the Day, ‘Face the Slave_ kind of mech. 

His motor revved, all the power of a tank behind it. Pistons pumped, chugging heavily, and the grinding growl became a throb more felt than heard. Meaning that the vibration was quite impressive, considering the volume of noise. Brawl did nothing by halves. The chair shook against the floor as if there were an earthquake, and even desk rattled.

Soundwave’s hands spasmed. Brawl knew because _Primus_ that felt good. He gave a little spasm of his own but still caught the strange quiver in the slave’s thighs. It’d have been hard to hide that since said thighs were straddling his own. 

Curious, Brawl switched gears and let his motor howl for a moment. The slave’s remaining optic bulbs reset, and his hands flexed uncertainly. Then the tank downshifted, and his motor _ground_. 

“Oh, you like that, don’t you.” Pleased, Brawl upped the deep, pounding bass with another long rev that sent Soundwave squirming. Blue fingers clutched, obviously uncontrolled as the slave’s concentration shattered, and the sputter of escaping charge raced straight up the tank’s cables. He gasped; the zing had almost been painful, it’d been so strong.

Made sense. Roused charge had more energy than normal field levels.

…huh.

The hand on Soundwave’s chin let go, and Brawl grabbed a double-handful of blue aft. Soundwave jolted in his lap, surprised, but Brawl had already pulled him forward, pelvic span to pelvic span. One hand left the slave’s aft and grabbed the rim of his empty cassette deck, yanking Soundwave down to press against the tank’s torso. Against the armor over his engine housing. Flush against it, and the slave no longer had the thick armor plating of a warrior to shield his systems. Soundwave’s visor popped wide, but it was too late to do anything to protect himself. 

The tank looked down at him and chuckled wickedly.

Good thing Optimus was so good at what he did, or Skywarp would have wondered what in Primus’ name was happening out in the anteroom. Even the door vibrated in its frame.

A klik later, and Brawl overloaded. Hard.

 _Frag,_ that felt good!

It took him another klik to recover. Surface overload or not, it’d been a long time since he’d gotten some. The itch, fully scratched, ebbed in slow throbs back into the content thrum of post-overload system turnover. When his sensor grid finally reset, Brawl spread his arms and stretched leisurely. “Ahhhh. Nice.”

No longer held in place, the slave slid off Brawl’s lap. Well, more like oozed. It seemed that his joints had lost strength. He melted down Brawl’s chest, pouring between the tank’s legs to the floor, but even his knees were too wobbly to support him. He flopped to one side, propped up against Brawl’s leg. Nothing but the looped cables wrapped around his hands were keeping him upright, but he rubbed the side of his head against Brawl’s knee in an obvious plea for more. Just a little more. The heavy pulse had cut off too soon, and the sated idle of the tank’s engine wasn’t quite enough. Not enough.

He’d been keyed up and left hanging. Only a cruel mech would leave someone dangling like that.

Brawl watched him and snickered. “What, ya want something? Whatcha want, huh?” 

His engine revved lightly, and Soundwave writhed. Another rev, and the slave’s wriggling wrapped him around Brawl’s lower leg, thighs parted on either side of his foot in order to press nearer, closer, further into the feel of throbbing bass as charge skittered over neglected, poorly maintained systems. His hands were bound, wrists tied up in Brawl’s cables, and Soundwave hooked them over the tank’s knee. His head bent beneath them, face mask mindlessly pushing against tank treads. 

Heh. Well, he hadn’t expected any of this, but definitely not having anyone sprawled on the floor begging for it. Not really his scene, but Brawl could get into this. 

Of course…getting a few repairs done would probably be more than a quick interface was worth. As soon as he’d get Soundwave looking a little better, somebody would use him as a punching bag and ruin it. Breakdown would start popping optic bulbs as fast as Brawl could buy them. He could always start telling mechs to stay the frag away, but that’d be like -- like -- like sticking a flagpole down Soundwave’s backstruts. Yeah. _I claim this slave in the name of Brawl._

Kinda a hot idea, but all kinds of trouble. It’d be a pain in the diodes taking responsibility for Soundwave, of all mechs. After a hundred-odd vorns standing guard on the harem, taking the harem eunuch back to his quarters would raise some awkward questions. He’d have to clear it with Starscream, for one thing. He’d want to know the whys and wherefores. The Seeker wouldn’t get the idea of settling for a decent release instead of an actual frag, and Brawl really didn’t want to have to explain gestalt dynamics and why some cable-play was better than trying to hunt down his own combiner team. 

Slag, Brawl didn’t want to explain anything! Because Onslaught would inevitably find out, and Blast Off would get that haughty look Brawl always wanted to pound off his stupid face, and Swindle would want details, and Vortex would want to break his new toy because that’s what Vortex did, and -- ugh. It wasn’t worth it. 

It was probably a one-time thing, anyway. Soundwave was just climbing all over him because he’d fixed the energon measurements. Maybe because he’d told Breakdown to scram. Made him wonder what Soundwave would do if he started scaring off all the mechs who tormented him. Gratitude, right? Might be interesting.

Bah, that was just wishful thinking. Most of the time, the eunuch couldn’t be pried out of the harem with less than a direct order. He’d disappear back through the door any klik now.

Brawl sighed his vents, feeling oddly depressed. It’d been a nice fantasy while it lasted. “Too bad,” he said at the slave trembling against his leg. He absently let his motor chug faster as he reached down to untangle his cables and tuck them away again. 

Soundwave squirmed almost happily. Charge blossomed in tiny white sparks inside his open chest compartment. The sight unfurled something dull and warm at the bottom of Brawl’s spark, because _he_ could do this. He could overload someone by just running his motor. “Coulda been fun,” the tank muttered regretfully.

There was a loud _CRACK!_ and two even louder shouts. It sounded like a barfight in the middle of a brothel: lots of property damage and overloading.

Brawl was up out of the chair before the sound of things breaking even finished. Slave, desk, and chair were thrown aside, and he transmitted the access code from halfway across the room. The door whipped open, fortunately before he ran right through it. The harem door had been made for style, not strength, and in a competition between burly harem guard and flimsy harem door, well, only one was going to emerge unscathed.

Much in the same way angry harem guard versus furniture-breaking intruder would end. Bets would likely not favor an intruder.

\-- except that there was no intruder. There was broken furniture, but the only mechs in the harem were the ones cleared to be there.

Brawl slowed and came to a halt in the middle of the room. He stared. He dragged one hand down his face and prayed for patience, because _frag his life._

Then he stormed forward and yanked Skywarp and Optimus off of Megatron, because the stupid slaveband had the ex-tyrant paralyzed in pain as it zapped him over and over again for touching two mechs who hadn’t given him a choice in the matter. The moment the other two were off him, Megatron rolled to his hands and knees and scrambled away, teeth gritted and face locked in a furious, humiliated grimace that didn’t cover just how much pain he was in. Brawl’s HUD scrolled through the list and finally found the correct cut-off code, and the sudden end to the punishment got a pained grunt from the slave. For a split second, Brawl could actually see Megatron’s elbows weaken.

It didn’t last. Megatron looked up, red optics glaring an enraged crimson. “Skywarp…” he growled.

Skywarp didn’t even notice. But then, the dumb Seeker hadn’t noticed teleporting off the berth, either, which said a lot more about his intelligence than mere listening skills. A processor set complicated enough to drive Hook to drink after repairs were required, and the stupid flyer still spontaneously warped when he got overexcited. Skywarp was living proof that Primus had a horrible sense of humor.

At least Optimus kept a few wits about him. His vocalizer had maxed out in the first surge of what had to be a massive overload -- Skywarp just kept yelling, the fragger -- but he managed an apologetic look in Megatron’s direction. Er, vaguely in his direction. Brawl didn’t think his optics were tracking quite right. 

“I’m gonna kill Blast Off,” Brawl decided. It seemed like the best solution available. 

He stepped over the two mechs moving together on the floor and ignored the smell of ozone and hot metal floating off them as their datastreams continued to sync up. They’d be at it for a while longer, if he was any judge, and it’d take them even longer to unknot their cables. Teleporting halfway across the room, falling through a table, and getting dumped aside had twisted them up, and both mechs had the standard 72 cables each. Brawl felt a little smug about that at the moment. Not smug enough to not want to kick Skywarp in the head, but he wasn’t allowed to do that.

He’d asked, the first time this had happened. Slag, he’d asked the second time, too. Starscream just got the long-suffering look of a mech cursed to put up with idiocy and denied Brawl’s requests every time. 

Instead of some well-deserved kicking, Brawl went to inspect the latest furniture fatality of the harem. “So much for that table,” he said loudly. 

Optimus’ optics flickered pale blue, but Skywarp had him extremely distracted. Brawl shook his head and used his feet to start gathering the table pieces up into a more tidy pile. Because a pile was all that was left. The thing hadn’t been made to bear up under a single mech’s weight, much less the weight of two mechs vigorously interfacing on top of it. There were pieces of lacy scrollwork scattered everywhere. The legs were snapped in several places, and anything that wasn’t snapped was crushed. 

The chair was better off. Megatron had righted it and gingerly sat down again, looking as if he expected it to collapse under him any second. When it didn’t, he relaxed and went back to glaring at his fellow harem slave and former subordinate. It’d be quite the show if it weren’t so annoying. 

Brawl kept grumbling. Cleaning sucked. “I’m gonna have to order another table, slaggit. I hate request forms. It takes forever, and then they always gimme the run-around because I filled out the wrong form for this orn or some such slag. The blasted desk-pilot in charge of maintenance thinks I’m buildin’ a furniture army. I gotta account for every Primus-slagged bolt that goes in an’ outta here.” Megatron was giving him an odd look. Brawl shoved more table around. “What, am I gonna start stockpiling tables? I ain’t Swindle! Slag, maybe I oughta start selling him the scrap, ‘cause it’s like a regular thing. Get table, throw table out. Get table, throw table out. Brawl! Go get another table, ‘cause, yeah, what a surprise -- this one broke!”

The two mechs on the floor were starting to come around. For some reason, even Optimus was stifling a smile. Skywarp was outright laughing. Brawl shot him a disgusted look, and the Seeker gave a shameless shrug of his wings back. 

“It felt good at the time?” 

“’It felt good at the time,’” Brawl mimicked nasally. “Lemme tell ya, my foot up your aft would feel good at the time! Oh, for frag’s sake, get outta my way.” Soundwave timidly shrank back before the tank’s shooing gesture. “I got this. Go…help Skywarp get his head on straight or somethin’.”

Skywarp barked a laugh, but Optimus smiled gently when the blue mech hesitantly took a step toward the two tangled mechs. “How about some high grade?” he suggested to Seeker, slow and clear so Soundwave could read his lips. “And perhaps we should relocate to the berth?” His lips quirked. “Again?”

The eunuch scurried off to fetch the refreshment tray set on a low table near the door as Skywarp and Optimus maneuvered themselves upright. There was much hissing and a couple yelps from Skywarp as the connected cables pulled in ways that _had_ to hurt. “It felt good at the time,” Skywarp repeated ruefully. 

Brawl chuckled cruelly. Optimus gave him a mild look of reproof, and the tank busied himself shoveling table-bits together. Leaving even fragile table pieces unguarded around Megatron wasn’t going to happen on his watch. With Brawl’s luck, he’d get a broken table leg thrust through his visor next shift. So half his attention was on the mess, but he watched Megatron every moment. 

The ex-tyrant sneered and rose to stalk across the room toward the berth. Skywarp and Optimus had settled onto it again, nestled together near the headboard, and Megatron rigidly sat on the very end, putting his back against one of the corner posts and folding his arms like the world’s grumpiest berth ornament. He pointedly didn’t look in Brawl’s direction. Brawl didn’t stop watching him. It was when Megatron’s temper got riled that he was at his most dangerous these days. Slavery had taught him to be sneaky instead of blunt.

Optimus and Skywarp didn’t pay attention to the silent drama. Brawl kept his grumbling to a complaining mumble out of respect for the Seeker’s reward-time, but Skywarp had more interesting things to focus on. The flyer’s wings were flat on the bed, his head propped up on a pillow, and Optimus reclined beside him. The ex-Prime was delicately unweaving their cables, unclipping the connections and patiently spooling them back into their casing. Skywarp hummed under the lingering touches, pampered and loving it. 

Brawl’s own cable tingled faintly in remembered pleasure, but he dismissed the sensation. Business before…whatever the frag that had been. 

“So what brings you to us today, my lord?” Optimus asked as he worked. Megatron’s head didn’t turn, but the level glare at the opposite berth post slid to the side.

It was funny, Brawl mused as he piled metal shards on the dented tabletop. No matter how far down the previous leaders had fallen, they couldn’t stop craving news of their factions and their world. Only Cybertron’s best and brilliant came to the harem, and the slaves inside hung off their accomplishments. The slaves weren’t kept ignorant; Optimus, at least, could access the news on the datanet like anybody. But the mechs who earned a visit to the harem were questioned every time for updates and information as if the former leaders couldn’t get enough. 

“Mmm, what? Oh.” Skywarp stretched and resettled a bit more comfortably, optics dimming slowly. “Right, so space bridge construction for the Deltoid Asteroid Belt mining project kept getting set back because the materials were getting intercepted by Skuxxoid pirates. And half the patrol platoon was out chasing them around, but no luck. It’s an asteroid belt, y’know? It’s like trying to find a gear in the scrappile. So **I** told Scrapper to hide me in one of the shipments, and he told me I was crazy but packed me in one of the load boxes.” Optimus made an amused noise, mostly just indicating he was listening as he plucked a highgrade cube off the tray and sipped. He immediately bent down and kissed Skywarp deeply, sharing the energon. The Seeker paused, eagerly accepting the kiss and the highgrade in one. 

He licked his lips when the ex-Prime sat back and launched back into his story. “And it would have worked, but it turns out the Skuxxoids were stealing our stuff ‘cause the Gleaty -- Gleats -- Gleatymun -- something like that -- anyway, they were trying to start a war with the Skuxxoids, and this time **they** took the shipment. I get out of the box and find out I’m halfway across the blasted galaxy from my back-up, and I’ve got twenty aliens pointing weapons at me. So I start talking because, yeah, I don’t wanna die, and I convince them I’m a space bridge engineer.” This time, even Megatron snorted an explosive sound of amusement. Optimus smiled and went down for another shared kiss. 

Skywarp grinned crookedly when their lips parted. Optimus licked a trickle of energon from the corner of his mouth. “Wait for it, because it gets better. They tell me start building a space bridge to the Skuxxoid home world, and, well, what else could I do…”

The story continued, rollicking through an adventure of inept engineering, tricking aliens every which way just to stay alive, and a completely botched rescue attempt by the patrol platoon that had been assigned to catch the pirates in the first place. Optimus’ rich laughter rolled through the room when Skywarp admitted to trying to make the space bridge explode and accidentally making it work instead. Sometimes Megatron cracked what might have been a smile, but mostly he just listened. Brawl kept cleaning and resolved to tell this at the bar later. He could not _wait_ to hear the platoon’s side of this, because there had to be a group of seriously embarrassed mechs trying not to be noticed out there right now. They blew up their own ship? Really? Now that was buying the special edition extra big bonus issue of _Stupid Weekly._

Brawl shook his head and started toting pieces of table toward the door. Making sure he had all the little bits was going to take a while longer, but Skywarp didn’t give a scrap about having an audience. Optimus interspersed the story with languid, tasty kisses throughout, and that occasionally led to a klik or two of impassioned groping. The two mechs switched places more than once, Skywarp pinning Optimus down by the wrists as he ravished the slave’s mouth for every last drop of highgrade. Megatron stayed impassive, not watching either the berth or Brawl directly.

Soundwave discreetly moved the refreshment tray out of range of an errant wing or elbow, keeping his head down and body tucked in submissively, and went back to hunting for the pillows. There were far too many of them, in Brawl’s opinion. The Earth embassy sent the harem one per vorn on the anniversary of the diplomatic conquest of Earth. 

No matter what the humans told themselves, everybody knew the planet surrendered on the Autobots’ advice to prevent a full Decepticon invasion. The loss of human life would have been catastrophic. Not that the Decepticons would have cared, but the Autobots had still been negotiating their own surrender at that point. Straight genocide of the human race hadn’t been a very peaceful solution. More importantly, it hadn’t been an _efficient_ solution. 

Brawl had been in favor of death and destruction, personally, but he’d mellowed after the first of the cooperative energy harvest projects starting shipping some truly excellent highgrade back to Cybertron. And Earth had developed some bizarrely fun exports over time, too. Humans were fragging irritating sometimes, but so long as they stayed on their little dirtball planet far away from where Brawl had to deal with them…whatever. Live and let live, and keep exporting the good stuff!

Optimus still remembered the humans as friends, and the feeling was apparently mutual. The first dozen vorns or so, the pillows had been elaborate remembrance creations made from organic materials. Optimus had requested and gotten a sterile case for displaying and preserving them. One of the Autobot visitors must have told the humans about it, because eventually they started making them out of sturdy synthetics meant to be used instead of displayed like art. 

Hence, pillows everywhere. Optimus seemed inordinately fond of them.

Sometimes Brawl wondered if keeping track of the slagging pillows was Soundwave’s main duty. He could swear that they migrated, some days. They even appeared outside the harem door every once and while, and even though he’d scanned them half to pieces checking for hidden moving parts, they came up as just…pillows. Pillows that tried to escape. It was kind of entertaining, especially when that old codger Ironhide had to backtrack across the city to return pillows that somehow stowed away under his seats. Brawl had never seen that Autobot look so flustered, possibly because Brawl had made a point of asking just what he’d been doing to lodge a pillow there.

Optimus encouraged the Autobots who earned a harem visit to use him for his intended purpose, but frag if any of the Autobots wanted to admit to it afterward. It was the funniest slag running when Brawl applauded as they exited. He wasn’t supposed to, but they were just so _prissy_ about it! 

Skywarp was like the living embodiment of the opposite. Prissy? Pfft. He absolutely gloried in his reward, lazing about on the bed letting the ex-Prime feed him kiss by kiss. If he were any more of a hedonist, Brawl would be getting a charge off him from all the way across the room.

The tank scoffed to himself and pushed Soundwave out of the way. “Move it, scrapheap.” The eunuch stumbled and almost fell, and Optimus looked up from a comparatively light liplock. As in, Skywarp didn’t try to tongue his vocalizer out. “Don’t gimme that look,” Brawl grumbled at the ex-Prime. “He knows better than t’ get in my way.”

Skywarp glanced over. “Oh, yeah, that reminds me. The brats were running interference on the Skuxxoid ship that eventually picked us up. Hey. Hey! Slave-bot!” Brawl sent another prayer for patience up and elbowed Soundwave until the slave stopped peering behind the table wreckage for more pillows. Skywarp had never quite got it through his head that ‘no communications equipment _at all_ ’ meant yelling louder wouldn’t magically get through to Soundwave. It seemed to be a common problem among the dafter harem visitors. 

Soundwave looked up at the tank, confused. Brawl used one hand to physically turn his head toward the berth. 

“Your little thugs are doing okay!” Skywarp shouted slowly, which really only served to make his voice more obnoxious. Brawl hadn’t known that was possible. “They say hi!” Megatron looked pained and turned his head toward the ex-Communication Officer, mouthing the words so Soundwave could actually understand what was being yelled at him. “Rumble’s got another altmode now -- some kinda skimmer -- and Frenzy’s painted himself pink and white!”

“Skywarp,” Optimus sighed. “My lord. Be nice.”

The Seeker grinned unrepentantly. “Okay, maybe not that last part. But Ravage did get white racing stripes!” He noticed Soundwave looking at Megatron instead of him and upped his voice even further, assuming he still wasn’t loud enough. “Haven’t seen the little flying pests for stellar cycles, but Frenzy said they’re doin’ good!”

Optimus was giving Skywarp an affectionately bemused look, as if he were watching a turbo-hound chase its own tail. Megatron looked like he’d ingested old, gluey lowgrade. The Seeker’s shouting was well-meant but not well thought-out. As per usual. 

Soundwave looked like he’d been handed a whole cube of highgrade all his own. Brawl supposed he had some kind of attachment to the Cassetticons, even though they weren’t his anymore. They weren’t even allowed into this city quadrant, but Onslaught sometimes checked in because one of the little glitches bribed him for details on how the ex-communications expert was doing. Slag, one of Brawl’s favorite bars was on the other side of the city, but he hadn’t been there in vorns because he kept getting completely over-energized off free highgrade every time he went. He’d suffered the worst hangover-nightmares of his life about a table full of tiny mechs with beady optics asking him endless questions. 

Brawl finished kicking the last of the furniture pieces out the door and checked the reserved time block. “Hey, hero of the orn,” he said mockingly at the berth. “You got a breem left. Use it or lose it.” With those words of wisdom, he went out the door himself. Something _dink_ ed off the inside after it swished closed, and the tank huffed a half-laugh. Seeker had probably thrown an empty cube at his head, knowing Skywarp. Mech would be a menace if he weren’t such a lazy fragger.

He looked at the pile of scrap that had been a table and blasted air out his vents. He could see acquisition forms in his immediate future. Ugh. 

Well, one thing in Brawl’s favor: he didn’t do procrastination. That’d be like…getting an order and not carrying it out. Grunts didn’t do that. Besides, he’d only have to do it later if he didn’t do it now. Even worse, if he didn’t do it himself, Blast Off would probably desert his post again to avoid having to do it himself. Brawl added up the equations glumly: don’t fill out forms now + sulking shuttle = pulling extra shifts. Or, fill out forms now + (moderately less) sulking shuttle = (possibly) no extra shifts. 

So by the time Skywarp skipped out of the harem, Brawl was sitting at the desk again having a memo-war with the morons currently on-shift in building maintenance. It should not have been so difficult to just get the rusted form! What did they mean, he didn’t have request clearance?! He’d been cleared to access the whole slagging building! If there was another guard up here right now, he could storm down to storage and get the replacement table himself!

“See you later!” Skywarp chirped in passing.

Brawl didn’t lift his forehelm off the desk. He just gave the fragging Seeker a rude hand gesture and fired off another angry memo over the in-building ‘net. The reply came back immediately, and it used words he had to access a dictionary to understand. Oh, come on, did they think he was that stupid? Just because his programming prioritized combat-related information didn’t mean he didn’t know how to tell when somebody was talking down to him. He worked with Onslaught and Blast Off, for Primus’ sake. Now he knew they were doing this on purpose! Forget getting the table -- he wanted to go down there to pound these idiots into bitty pieces.

The desk _cronk_ ed over the floor as he shoved his chair back and stomped toward the harem door. “Gonna stick an acquisition form up their table-lovin’ afts is what I’m gonna do,” he muttered, keying in the code. “Give it a good twist and see how many fancy words they know **then**.” A quick glance in showed Optimus still relaxing on the berth. One happy ex-Prime harem slave, check. Megatron glared back at him from the end of the berth; he must have interrupted another discussion. Like he hadn’t heard it all before? One disgruntled ex-tyrant harem slave, check. 

Brawl was about to duck back out, but something struck him as off. Optimus was lying on a sea of multicolored pillows, but that was normal. Not so normal was the fact that his pristine paintjob was scuffed and marked with black and purple transfers. The tank looked around and found Soundwave carefully stacking the empty cubes on the tray instead of polishing up the ex-Prime. The eunuch shrank down slightly when Brawl gave him the evil optic. Visor. Whatever. A not-happy harem guard look.

“You got work to do!” He pointed with a _wax on, wax off_ gesture added, and Soundwave turned toward the berth helplessly.

Optimus lifted a hand and waved him away. “Not right now, Soundwave,” he said, but the words were directed toward Brawl. “I told him to give me some time,” he reassured the tank. 

Oh. That was different than the boxy blue mech slacking off. “Must have been one Pit of an overload.” The Autobot gave him an indifferent look and rolled over, choosing not to respond one way or another. Megatron continued to glare. Soundwave looked back and forth between Optimus and Brawl nervously.

And Brawl got an idea. A wonderful, terrible idea. The kind of idea grunts weren’t supposed to get, because grunts weren’t supposed to think independently. Which meant the twits down in maintenance wouldn’t see it coming. 

“C’mere, you.” He beckoned, and Soundwave’s nervous look ramped up. “I got something for you t’ do.” 

The back of his head was cackling and rubbing its hands together like Swindle after a sale, overriding the more sensible parts of him already skimming through the regulations for how many different kinds of trouble this was going to get him into. Okay, really, if Blast Off could get away with ditching his shift on Brawl every other orn, then Brawl could get away with ignoring one little rule. Although there had to be a way to make it less ignoring a rule and more just finding a loophole. Maybe if he didn’t allow Soundwave on the chair -- wasn’t precisely a rule, but anything that wasn’t the floor was too good for the eunuch -- and watched every single thing he did…but how could he do that? Brawl knew he wasn’t the best at keeping his attention on things. Blast Off always made a point of --

Frag Blast Off. Blast Off wasn’t here, now was he? Which meant that _Brawl_ got stuck with an extra shift, and _Brawl_ had to put up with paranoid Stunticons and Skywarp and mouthy maintenance mechs, and _Brawl_ was _fed up_ with this slag. Frag ‘em all. Brawl was gonna do something he wanted to do, and he wasn’t going to let his own stupid gestaltmate get in his way. 

He hadn’t been a Combaticon for a long while. Might be time to start acting like it.

…starting with finishing something that’d been interrupted. Because if Soundwave couldn’t sit in the desk chair, then he could sit on Brawl’s lap while _Brawl_ sat in the chair watching his every move, and that was a position that sounded more appealing by the second. This wasn’t precisely business anymore, and after business came time for some pleasure. It probably wouldn’t take much to see if Soundwave was interested in picking up where they’d left off. A couple engine revs, and maybe Brawl would get to see the boxy blue mech squirm and beg again.

Mm. Yeah. Forget Blast off. Brawl had more important things to do this shift.

He snapped his fingers and turned to go back out the door. “C’mon!”

When he glanced back, the ex-officer was staring after him. Soundwave hastily looked down. Megatron’s glare had turned suspicious, but he wouldn’t say scrap and they all knew it. It might expose Soundwave as a weak spot in the ex-tyrant’s determined insolence. Optimus peered over his shoulder, a vague flicker of concern crossing his face, but apathy won out long enough for Soundwave to pick up the tray. Neither Autobot nor Decepticon objected as he obediently followed Brawl out the door. 

Because, in the end, they were just slaves.

 

 

**[* * * * *]**

**_[A/N:_** Next up: Optimus is curious, Starscream is confused, Brawl is clumsy, and Soundwave just can’t. **]**


	4. Pt. 4: Runaway

**Title:** Tyrant of the Seraglio, Pt. 4: Runaway  
 **Warnings:** READ THE WARNINGS, PLEASE  
 _BDSM (dominance/submission, slavery)  
Coercion  
Mutilation/Gore  
Memos_  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** IDW/G1 (AU)  
 **Characters:** Soundwave, Megatron, Optimus, Brawl, Starscream  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** _Optimus Prime – “passive”_

**[* * * * *]**

_From TFWiki –_  
vorn = 83 years  
deca-vorn = 8.3 years  
stellar cycle = ~7.5 months  
orn = 1 Cybertron day  
joor = 6 hours  
cycle = 1.25 hours  
breem = 8.3 minutes  
klik = 1.2 minutes

mechanometer ~ meter  
kil ~ kilometer

**[* * * * *]**

 

Everyone in the harem had a coping strategy. Soundwave submitted. Megatron fought. Optimus speculated. 

Soundwave cringed and scurried, always obedient in his best attempt to lessen inevitable punishment. He coped by doing exactly what he was told to, because he was desperate to avoid being broken further. Megatron blamed and complained, eternally angry in a long, slow boil that made him dangerous even fettered as he was. He coped by surly compliance until an unpredictable eruption, because anything less would mean he’d been broken. Optimus dreamed and wondered, gliding through hard reality on a soft cushion of might-have-beens that weren’t. He coped by bending, because he thought about what might have happened if he hadn’t.

Debatably, it kept each of them sane. Optimus felt sane, anyway. Sometimes lost in his head, sometimes weary of the world outside it, but sane. He didn’t deny reality. He knew the difference between thought and reality. He didn’t want the future he thought about to become a reality. 

Optimus had come to the life of a harem slave knowing what he was getting into. Being used as an interfacing toy and prize slave hadn’t been a shock. He’d have submitted to his master even if he hadn’t known, however. It was one of his speculations, what life could have been like if he’d resisted, if he’d continued leading the Autobots through a losing war, and Optimus usually decided in favor of becoming a slave every time. He’d been prepared for pain and humiliation, and he would have surrendered to that. He could have been turned over to the Decepticon ranks to be used as a frag-toy by them all, and he’d have gone willingly. His master could insist on interfacing in front of all of Cybertron, and Optimus would obey.

It hadn’t come to that. The worst that happened in public was the formality of kneeling when the Autobots’ agreed to the final draft of the terms of surrender. Nothing painful happened in private. It’d been a toss-up who was more surprised by the lack of abuse: Optimus’ officers, or the Decepticons in general. 

Optimus himself kept his expectations low. Reactions were difficult to provoke when a mech stayed in neutral, equally ready to be pushed around or yanked up short. It meant separating himself from true emotion, but that wasn’t anything new. Not really.

The brackets in Optimus’ chest tensed occasionally, closing around an invisible presence that rested in him still. The Matrix lay inside Ultra Magnus chest, but it hadn’t Chosen the other Autobot. It could be easily removed, which his former friend and comrade did whenever meeting with the Decepticons, and that’s when the brackets flexed. Optimus kept his silence about the phantom spasms. He also kept silent about the thrum of approval that pulsed through him every time he gracefully surrendered control to his owner or anyone he was gifted to. 

Only he knew that the Matrix approved of its Bearer’s servitude. The Autobots had protested until Ironhide burnt out his vocalizer and Ratchet nearly overclocked himself. Even the unholy team-up of Jazz and Prowl hadn’t done anything to dissuade their Prime. Because the Matrix approved, as it had approved of saving others at the cost of his own body during the war. His officers called him forty kinds of stupid and a martyr, but the Matrix approved. It approved of him putting his Autobots first, and even more so of making Cybertron as a whole more important than one single mech.

He himself didn’t come first, nor second. But he never had. Slavery just made his subordinate status his most obvious feature, now.

The Primes served. The Senate had once twisted the office of Prime into a political thing of power, but Optimus knew the truth. He’d serenely given up the physical presence of the Matrix and taken up the spiritual role that stayed within him, and it was _nice_ that slavery wasn’t as painful as he’d assumed it would be. It didn’t really _matter_ that he wasn’t the plaything of all and sundry, since he’d have resigned himself to even that, but it was nice.

After a lifetime of leading a war as the ultimate authority, serving the Autobots as a warrior, the adjustment period had been brutal. A Prime’s duty was to serve, but it’d taken quite a while to awkwardly dig out the pride standing between him and the return to an overtly submissive role.

The fault lay with him. Blaming everyone else was Megatron’s coping mechanism.

Optimus just…dreamed of how it could have been.

Not of reigning as Megatron wished. Primes didn’t -- shouldn’t have to -- rule. He thought of different kinds of service. Optimus stared out the window over a rebuilt Cybertron, and he wondered how it would have looked if the peace had come about another way. He wondered if the buildings would have been arranged in blocks instead of arrayed in expanding circles radiating out from this building, the city center. The current layout was a testament to his master’s certainty of just whom the universe centered on. Optimus would have never wanted the city to be built around him if the Autobots had won instead of surrendered. 

He wondered who would have made the decisions, how committees would have been elected, what his role would have been in an Autobot government. Ultra Magnus would have made a good Chancellor, or President, or whatever name the position got. It probably would have shocked the brakes off his officers when the Prime refused the head political role, but knowing how the Matrix pulled him, Optimus wouldn’t have lasted long sitting in a position of power. Diplomacy had its uses in serving the people, but the Primes had been too long in a position of leadership. Ultra Magnus or perhaps Prowl would have taken up the government role, and Optimus would have retired to activism, support, and rebuilding Cybertron’s people instead of structure.

That future, he thought rather wistfully now and again, could have been a good life. Stressful at times, but _good_. 

Slavery had never been part of his idle plans for the future, but there was no use in protesting. What had happened, happened. Megatron had been overthrown. The new Decepticon regime had utilized the subtle cunning of deception instead of heavy-handed tactics, and the Autobots hadn’t stood a chance against intelligence wielding brute force. Surrender had been the best option. Not an option anyone liked, but still the best one available. 

Optimus had retired in a vastly different manner, and Ultra Magnus had taken up his position. He was certainly doing a good job advising Optimus’ master, as much as the Decepticon government listened to Autobots. To be fair, that was far more in surrender than it would have been in total defeat. There were Autobots in strategic positions throughout the Decepticon structure of this new Cybertron, and…it made a difference. Enough of one to make slavery worth it.

It was a difference made possible because of the sacrifice of one mech. Just one, for the salvation of a whole faction and the planets they protected. Earth had come to no further harm after surrender, and neither had Paradron or the alien worlds gradually coming back into contact with Cybertron. 

Because Optimus served, it was possible. So he did. His own needs and wants shuffled to the back of his mind, suppressed with the aid of his sense of duty and the Matrix’s soothing pulses of approval, and first came his master’s desires. His master led Cybertron, and so Optimus knelt under that authority. Then came those sent to the harem. Rewarding them for their service to Cybertron reinforced in them the unconscious belief that the Matrix-Bearer blessed their efforts. It was a profoundly physical blessing -- uncomfortably so, in the first vorns of adjusting -- but Optimus’ smiling pleasure came easier as time passed. It was so obvious to equate slavery in the harem to serving Cybertron. 

Decepticons, Autobots, and Neutrals alike were sent to the harem, and they left with satisfaction and pleasure still singing through their circuitry. Optimus solemnly bent to his duty, and through it reinforced the belief that peace was _right._

That was reality. Optimus knew it. He never sought to escape the harem. It was where he belonged, now. Bland acceptance coated every sharp edge in the reality he drifted through. It was easy to become resigned to everything. The Matrix whispered its distance-faded assurances of rightness, of belief in his rightful place, and Optimus dwelled in that hazy feeling. He could be infinitely patient inside the utter certainty that his sacrifice ensured Cybertron’s prosperity. The Autobots were safe, even thriving. They kept to the terms of the peace because they respected what he had done for them; the Decepticons returned that respect because his master treasured his total surrender. He served all of Cybertron with his slavery.

Gentleness had been his default long ago, before the war. His urge to serve had manifested in fierce protectiveness that’d led him into law enforcement despite how he deplored violence. With the means and need to fight stripped away from him, the abilities honed by war and training were lulled dormant. Slavery had freed him to be gentle again.

That felt good when he let it, like a softly-addicting drug that he dosed on more often as time passed.

Between visitors, however, he thought about defeat. What would have happened to the other Autobots under Megatron’s victory? How would it have happened? What would have become of him, personally? Who would the Matrix have passed to? If they’d kept fighting after Megatron’s overthrow, how long would they have lasted? What would have happened to Earth? 

First came his master. Second came those he was gifted to. Only then could Optimus manage concern for his own well-being. Even then, he pushed himself aside. The Primes were vessels. He tried to enjoy fulfilling his purpose as much as possible. He filled the remaining empty space inside him with things that never happened, and avoided thinking about what was happening right now.

There were a million different speculations to make. Optimus drifted through the harem and its duties, comforted by the Matrix and cushioned by devotion to duty, and he endlessly thought about everything but the present. 

It frustrated Megatron to no end. “You’re mad,” he’d said over and over again when Optimus passively bent before another duty or visitor.

“We’re all mad here,” the ex-Prime said peaceably, face straight, and it wasn’t until Jazz burst out laughing that Megatron caught on to the ‘humanism’ the ex-Prime had been quoting for vorns on end at that point. 

The silver mech had gritted his teeth and switched to, “You’re insane.”

Optimus only rolled one shoulder in a shrug and responded, “Am I?”

It was a non-answer of an answer. It gave his former enemy nothing to use against him. That didn’t stop Megatron from continually battering himself against the smooth wall of impassive acceptance protecting Optimus, but polite conversational filler fulfilled that role just as well as any actual response would have. Megatron raged no matter how Optimus responded or reacted. It was what he did. Nothing Optimus said or didn’t say would help the ex-tyrant cope any better, and trying to change that was futile. It wasn’t worth Optimus fretting. 

In a distant way, he felt somewhat worried about Megatron’s towering hatred. Some orn soon, their owner would find a way to bring it crashing down, and the ex-Prime wondered what would be left standing in the rubble afterward. 

Well, that orn would come when it came. In the meantime, Optimus turned the tired dregs of his natural concern for others on someone he could actually help: Soundwave.

It wasn’t duty that prodded him up off the berth after the door closed. Yes, Soundwave was part of Cybertron. Yes, the Matrix urged him to protect all Cybertronians. But, like Optimus himself, Soundwave was a sacrifice for the good of many. Their master took cruel delight in the blue mech’s torture, and Optimus had heard enough from the rare visits granted to the Autobots to know that the sadism was absent from the newly rebuilt Cybertron. Soundwave had been spared as a means for revenge, and as an outlet. He was crippled and brought as low as possible, but the Matrix _accepted_ that.

The Matrix could be spectacularly cold in its calculations. This wasn’t the first time Optimus had thought that. As usual, he repressed the thought.

This time, he did it by wondering what Brawl was up to. Not because of duty, but because it headed off more serious trains of thought. That’s what had him standing up to meander toward the door. The echo of compassion and sad scraps of pity led to Optimus helping Soundwave most of the time, but caring for the harem’s pathetic servant was also a distraction from the ex-Prime’s own fate. Curiosity stung him, and it was a welcome prod.

Megatron watched him rise. “He won’t listen to you.” Bitterness twisted the ex-tyrant’s mouth into a strange shape. 

It was familiar to Optimus’ optics. “He might,” he corrected his old enemy. Unspoken was the fact that Brawl wouldn’t listen to Megatron, not after Starscream had finished tampering with the loyalty programming, but not even habitual disrespect toward all Autobots could overcome a Prime’s influence. An ex-Prime, but still -- Brawl’s respect lingered in odd ways. Perhaps it’d be enough.

There was a surly, gruff burst of air forced out of intakes too quickly. When Optimus glanced toward him, Megatron pretended it hadn’t come from him. “It’s pointless.”

Just like the arguments that circled through the harem? No. Everything had a purpose. To give Megatron’s untamed anger a target or deflect the present, there was always a reason for what Optimus did. The ex-Prime hummed thoughtfully and laid a hand on the door controls. The soft growl behind him was for the fact he was allowed to do that, not because Optimus did it. 

“It could be entirely unnecessary, but I won’t know until I find out what they’re doing,” he said mildly, offering something that would not reveal weakness. Megatron couldn’t afford to show connection to anyone, not even his former loyalist, but puzzles were impersonal. “Why would he want Soundwave? He’s never shown an interest in him before.”

The ex-tyrant blew out air again and stood to pace across the room. “Who the frag knows what goes on in Brawl’s head? He’s never been the brightest bulb in the lot. If it wasn’t for Onslaught finding a use for him, I’d have demoted him back into the rank and file even before Bruticus. **After** Bruticus…” A black hand waved irritably in illustration of Megatron’s boundless annoyance at the messy chaos on Earth. He took another turn around the room, walking faster, and his route passed near where Optimus stood waiting. But not too near. The slave bands wouldn’t allow him to approach the door. “It could be he’s gotten it in his low-wattage brain module to beat the slag out of him.”

“Brawl is rarely spiteful,” Optimus pointed out. “Emotional, but not toward,” he hesitated, searching to phrase it correctly, “furniture, I suppose. He ignores Soundwave.”

“Brawl target-locks his anger.” Megatron slashed a hand through the air and restlessly paced back behind the desk. “He fixates, but he’s fully capable of randomly lashing out. He just doesn’t at Soundwave because he hates doing mundane chores.”

Like polishing the harem slaves or fetching high-grade for their guests. “That makes it even less likely he’d strike out at Soundwave now,” Optimus mused with a look down at his plating. Paint transfers from Skywarp still marred his finish. “How odd. It’s been a long time; why would he do anything after so much time?”

“Stop delaying!” the silver mech finally burst out, whirling to face him. “If you want to find out so blasted much, open the door and look!”

It was important not to smile too widely when Optimus won a genuine victory over Megatron. Petty though it might be, forcing the former leader of the Decepticons to grow impatient enough to concede interest amused the ex-Prime. Megatron was curious, too; backwards as it seemed, he’d just admitted to it. Laughing at the other slave over it would only rub rust in the wound.

“Very well,” Optimus murmured, fighting the twitch of his lips.

He tapped the door panel, requesting access. Theoretically, he was allowed to leave the harem, so long as he was escorted by a guard. Optimus was simply too apathetic about his personal freedom to bother exploring the limits of his slavery. Past experience with the Swindle incident and Onslaught’s various schemes to somehow exploit and/or plot with Megatron meant that the ex-Prime did know for sure that the door was programmed to open for him. And it did, after a moment to scan his wrist bands.

“Oh,” he said, very softly, and caught the door before it slid more than partway open in order to ease it back shut. Mostly shut. He carefully pressed to the side of the door frame in order to peer discreetly through into the guard room. “Oh.” This…had never been included in his speculations. He’d never imagined it was a possibility.

He was strangely delighted by that fact. There were might-have-beens that he’d yet to even wonder if they existed. 

“What?” Megatron hissed. Taking his cue from Optimus’ sudden, furtive dodge to the side, the ex-tyrant prowled across the room until his slave bands bleeped warning. Then he edged to the wall closest to the tall blue-and-red Autobot and craned his neck, trying to see around him and through the cracked door. 

Optimus didn’t bother answering. With the door opened even this much, the dull background noise he hadn’t noticed as significant abruptly became much clearer: engine roar. The deep, throbbing bass of a tank motor was enough to vibrate the floor against his feet, but it hadn’t registered because Brawl was often noisy. The Combaticon tank expressed himself loudly in laughter or bellowing anger, and the booming rumble of his engine underscored his guard shifts on the harem. That was the background noise of orn-to-orn life in this room.

“Oh,” he breathed again, still swept away in that weird lightness, like the world around him had suddenly revealed a whole new layer to think about. 

It had, in a way. Keeping Soundwave as safe as Optimus could was a charity chore. It was as tiresome as it was pathetic. He didn’t regret begging mercy on the behalf of someone already totally humbled, or feeling his tanks ping empty because he’d given his ration to a starving mech. The part of Optimus awake enough to not drowse under the drugged spell of Matrix-approval was still a gentle, fiercely protective mech who’d joined law enforcement to shield the helpless, once upon a time. That part of him was muted, muffled down by resignation and daydreams, but Optimus couldn’t stand stoic through Soundwave’s suffering. It’d just felt like a burden because of they all knew it would never end. Their master wouldn’t up and decide to forgive the ex-Communication Officer for thousands of vorns of betrayal and imprisonment.

Watching someone crawl and writhe in pain and shame for vorns on end deadened sympathy. It became tedious instead of sad. Hence why it felt like a chore. Optimus had begun to dread the orn he looked at Soundwave and concluded the mech was better off dead. What kind of life was being neutered like that, reduced to being the slave of slaves? There was no future hope to look toward, or even a lessening of despair.

There _hadn’t_ been, anyway.

“What is that idiot **doing**?” Megatron whispered harshly from beside him. Even the ex-tyrant kept his voice low. 

Amazement mingled with disgust filled the silver mech’s face when Optimus tore his optics off the crack in the door to look. “He’s interfacing with Soundwave,” Optimus informed him gravely, struggling not to smile. He added, a tad giddy from a burning, new-kindled secondhand sense of optimism, “I didn’t know he could do that anymore.” 

Interfacing. Soundwave could still _interface_. One of the most basic, life-affirming system functions a Cybertronian could have, one he’d long thought had been surgically removed from the eunuch, yet that out there was definitely pleasure. Soundwave could still feel _pleasure_.

Why had that never occurred to him? There were other ways for mechs to enjoy themselves other than clicking cables in, but Optimus had never even thought to ease Soundwave’s torture with a taste of bodily comfort. That was new, and exciting for the hope it smacked of. It was distraction and useful in one, and there were might-have-beens and could-happens spinning out in every direction now like unexplored roads just waiting for his mind to venture down.

Optimus was aware that he wore a silly grin. He didn’t care.

That earned him a peculiar look, half glare and half astonishment, but Megatron shook away the weirdness. “Brawl fragging him makes no sense. There’s nothing he can gain from it. Soundwave’s useless.” Useless in the optics of the former leader of the Decepticons, perhaps. An emotional connection to a mech never factored into his calculations unless it could be exploited, and Soundwave had been rendered useless in Megatron’s optics in terms of important things like escape. Optimus sighed and didn’t argue the point. As per usual, Megatron didn’t notice objectifying his former officer into a commodity, and a frown passed over the ex-tyrant’s face as he continued uninterrupted, “And why now?” 

It was a rational question to ask. 167.89 vorns of slavery, and only now did Brawl act to seize what he could have had for the taking all along?

Optimus lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Opportunity? Whim? I can’t remember him ever dragging Soundwave out like that before.” Megatron scowled and shook his head when glanced at in question. “He…seems to be enjoying himself, at least. I wouldn’t have pegged him for liking to watch, but…” They both flattened against the wall to look out again. Brawl didn’t notice them staring. 

The mask and visor might have made the Combaticon hard to read, but both slaves had long experience with their guard by now. He radiated an uncomplicated sort of enjoyment, revving his engine in rhythmic pulses of plating-rattling sound that sent the boxy blue mech sitting in his lap squirming. Soundwave’s wrists were captured in one strong hand, pinned to the desk in front of them, and the other held his head turned enough that Brawl could watch the remaining half of the slave’s visor flash erratically. Soundwave couldn’t moan, but that didn’t stop him from arching back and pushing into the fingers delicately holding his chin. Charge crackled over his plating, coalescing in white flashes inside his empty dock and sparking in the gaps of his joints. 

Laughing under the clatter of the desk dancing over the floor, Brawl let his engine downshift. Soundwave immediately began wriggling as the purr sustained his charge without letting it ebb or rise. “Having a good time, huh? Like that, don’tcha.” The two harem slaves strained to hear how the Combaticon teased the eunuch coming undone in his lap. “What, you want somethin’ more? Whatcha want, huh?” He let go of Soundwave’s wrists in order to stroke down the blue mechs’s side like he was evaluating something. “Not bad, not bad…huh. Yeah. Could get used t’ this.”

Soundwave rolled his head back onto Brawl’s shoulder tread and nuzzled into the side of the Combaticon’s helm. Charge sizzled and popped, and Soundwave _wanted_ so dearly that he didn’t need a voice to plead. Body language communicated his needs. He writhed between the hand on his chin and the hand now clamped over one thigh.

Maybe he’d have turned to face Brawl, but the Combaticon’s hand dropped from chin to his other thigh. With another ribald laugh, Brawl _yanked_ his aft back flush against him. Soundwave’s backward arch over the tank’s prominent chest ended as the move forced him forward in a painful crunch of thin plating against armor-grade. The half-broken visor went wide in fear for a second, and Soundwave started to twist to look up at Brawl in confusion.

That powerful grounder engine _roared_.

Optimus stifled a surprised exclamation, and behind him, Megatron grunted as if he were reluctantly impressed.

Strutless and all but melting under the barrage of violent vibrations, Soundwave flopped forward onto the desk. His arms were unable to support his weight. He buried his mask in the console keys and clawed frantically at the desk’s surface, but it wasn’t from pain. Optimus knew far too well what Soundwave looked like in pain. That was the complete opposite of pain.

And there was Brawl, laughing uproariously at the fun of blowing a mech’s mind from sheer pleasure.

Optimus had to raise his voice to be heard over the thunderous chugging making his windshield wipers jitter on his chest. “Should I ask him to stop?” He didn’t like the idea of Soundwave being forced, no matter how much of an improvement this was over what he’d thought Brawl wanted him for. 

“No,” Megatron said sourly. “That idiot will use him however he wants. He won’t stop just because you **ask**.” Contempt practically dripped off the word. The silver ex-tyrant thrust himself away from the wall and stalked across the room. 

A flicker of pity tried to ignite. It died. The sharpness of empathy had long since worn away inside Optimus. He watched Megatron storm over to throw himself in a chair, and he felt nothing. Slaves had no right to demand; they could only ask. Megatron refused adamantly to stoop to asking. Denial of a slave’s requests came easily to many, and the silver mech was too proud to open himself to the humiliation of denial. 

Optimus looked back out the door. It was telling that Soundwave wasn’t begging. One thing war had taught Optimus was that sometimes begging worked. Slavery had taught the boxy blue mech the same lesson, and Soundwave applied that lesson shamelessly. Harem slaves could only ask. The harem eunuch didn’t even have that right. He could, and did, beg for everything. It didn’t often earn him consideration, but that didn’t stop him from trying.

He wasn’t begging now. Or rather, he wasn’t begging for Brawl to _stop_.

“I think you like it,” the Combaticon chortled as he let his motor downshift again, apparently just to feel Soundwave grind against him. The eunuch pushed the side of his mask into the desk and bucked. The hands on his thighs tightened, crumpling the thin plating slightly, and Soundwave’s hands went back to paw uselessly at Brawl’s arms as brilliant white traceries of charge began zapping at the tank’s fingers. “Heh. Heh heh. Ooo, niiiiiice.”

The ex-Prime shook his head and started to quietly close the door. Later. He could ask Brawl what was going on later, once they, er, finished.

“ **What** in the **Pit**?!”

Brawl’s engine sputtered from second gear down to a flustered idle. “Uh -- “

Alarm blasted his fans for a brief second before Optimus opened the door all the way. There was a hate-filled curse from behind him, but the Autobot ignored Megatron in favor of draping himself in the doorway. “Lord Starscream,” he called in a berth-ready husk. It wasn’t that he thought he could divert attention away from the eunuch urgently pressing Brawl’s hand to the inside of his empty Cassette tray. However, coaxing the Seeker into the harem might allow Soundwave time to recover. 

The poor eunuch probably would have been a whimpering hot mess of a mech if he still had a vocalizer. He was definitely a hot mess at the moment, vocalizer or not. He was curled over the Combaticon’s hand in his chest as he sought those wonderful, deliciously deep vibrations now denied him. When Brawl cuffed him upside the head with his free hand, it shocked him off the brink of overloading. A hand on his helm directed his blurry gaze toward the Seeker standing in stunned silence in the entryway, and he froze. The silent whimper could almost be _felt_.

Desperate, the crippled ex-officer pushed himself off Brawl’s lap and tumbled to the floor in an extremely ungraceful heap. Wide red optics narrowed to burning slits while Soundwave sorted out his uncooperative limbs and scurried around to the front of the desk, but the slave managed to kneel in a properly submissive pose. The boxy blue mech was trembling hard, all the excess charge of stymied arousal transmuted instantaneously to terror. 

With good reason. Almost on automatic, the flyer swept an assessing look over the Autobot posed in the harem doorway. Starscream’s lip curled, and Soundwave cringed. “You’re scuffed,” that notoriously discordant voice snapped at Optimus, but Starscream glared at the mech responsible for buffing such paint transfers away. “My orders are to be obeyed, **slave**!”

Optimus dimmed his optics. “Forgive me, my Lord. I asked Soundwave to refrain from polishing me after Skywarp departed,” he soothed, trying to smooth this over by taking the blame. “I was unaware of any orders.”

The curled lip became a full snarl, and Soundwave’s back struts kinked into a painful-looking arch as the ex-officer tried to make himself as small as possible before the former Air Commander’s rage. “I left orders with Blast Off for the harem to be readied for my -- “ Starscream cut himself off when Brawl stood up awkwardly and reset his vocalizer. Wrong Combaticon on duty. Optimus could nearly see the anger at Soundwave derail into peevish displeasure with the guards. “Where is he?”

Brawl’s hands made a wavering gesture of indecision. Optimus stayed quiet and watched closely. It was an open secret that Blast Off took off whenever he wanted to. That stuck Brawl with guard duty, but the more reliable soldier had never officially lodged a complaint so far as Optimus or Megatron knew. They’d discussed the odd behavior often enough, wondering when the tank would finally get fed up enough to say something to someone besides Onslaught. It was gestalt-bond instinct to take internal issues to unitmates, but the war was over. The Combaticons were scattered across Cybertron. 

If Brawl wanted something for himself, he’d have to speak up.

The Autobot in the door didn’t move, but behind the bland optics he kept on Starscream, Optimus urged Brawl to _speak_. 

Starscream sneered impatiently. “Answer me!”

“…dunno?” Slightly helpless, Brawl turned his hands up. “He didn’t say anything about orders before he left. When he left. Uhhh…was he supposed to?”

Red darkened to a furious burgundy. Optimus winced inside. Starscream felt everything passionately, and he did so hate having his will spited. 

“Yes,” the Seeker rasped, “he was. You!” Soundwave jolted, slapping his hands flat on the ground and shaking visibly under the finger pointed straight at him. “Polish him,” Optimus straightened to stand as the finger swung over to point at him next, “until he fragging well **glows**. Then fetch a tray from the dispensary, you waste of scrap metal!” 

The eunuch bowed over his hands repeatedly. He didn’t dare take his limited vision off Starscream’s mouth in case more orders were spat at him, but he scooted toward the harem doorway in a sort of sideways crabwalk on all fours. 

Optimus bowed from the waist in acknowledgment but didn’t say anything as Soundwave slipped past his feet. The Seeker’s ire seemed to have settled on someone other than Soundwave, and he didn’t want to disturb that rare happenstance. The last thing he saw before closing the door was Starscream advancing on Brawl with the dark look of someone who wanted answers and was going to go through whomever got in his way to getting them. Brawl, quite understandably, looked nervous.

Mechs who got in Starscream’s way pretty much lived just long enough to regret it these orns.

“I hope he murders that fool,” Megatron muttered. 

“Which one?” Optimus asked without much interest. Megatron could have been referring to Blast Off, Brawl, or Starscream. Or all of them. 

The ex-tyrant shot him an exasperated glare. “Blast Off!”

“Mmhmm.” He still didn’t know if Blast Off was the fool or the murderer, but it didn’t matter either way. Megatron just wanted his traitorous former troops to kill each other. 

More importantly to Optimus, Soundwave had wobbled to his feet and was pulling insistently on his arm, half-offline visor wide as he pleaded with the ex-Prime to hurry. “I’ll work on my arms if you start with my legs,” he told the eunuch kindly, and Soundwave nodded in relief. 

Stumbling in his haste, the boxy blue mech jogged back to the screened-off corner that hid a few miscellaneous things. Nothing that could be even remotely be turned into a weapon, but polishing supplies, the glittering chains hanging on the wall waiting to be displayed on Optimus like expensive ornaments, and a thin mat Soundwave had been granted for recharge. It’d taken the eunuch over a hundred vorns of obedience combined with Optimus’ best charming pleas to convince their master to grant him even that mat. Sometimes, the ex-Prime wondered if Soundwave treasured it simply as a sign that their owner might, some vorn far in the future, move from outright hatred to disdain.

Optimus sighed softly and sat down on the berth. The paint streaks weren’t very severe. It wouldn’t take more than a few kliks of polishing to bring his plating back to a solid shine. It was only a question of how destructive Starscream would feel toward the eunuch because his orders hadn’t been carried out before he arrived. He did have a right to be angry, in a way: the harem existed for the pleasure of those used it, not the pleasure of the slaves inside it. Arriving to find his orders apparently ignored while Soundwave sought an overload must have been a slap in the face for the volatile Seeker.

Blast Off had screwed up in not passing on those orders. They weren’t unusual, but it was Starscream. Starscream’s temper was flashpoint on a good orn. Disrupting Brawl by tossing the guard schedule out the window had probably been dismissed as Combaticon infighting, but snubbing _Starscream_ was a mistake. When he came to the harem, he expected to be pampered in every way. 

Which Optimus was perfectly willing to do, but things certainly weren’t turning out well today. Megatron was already grumbling. Soundwave was a shivering wreck whose hands shook as he knelt before the Autobot and rubbed vigorously at purple paint. The former Decepticon leader would provoke a fight if Starscream went after the cowering slave, and Optimus would have to witness Megatron be put down by the slave bands until the silver ex-tyrant grated out an apology syllable by syllable at Starscream’s feet. Punishment would leave the harem a miserable place for orns afterward. Pain wasn’t the punishment that would have Megatron sulking and humiliated. The behavioral controls wouldn’t be dialed back until Starscream deigned to forgive him.

The Matrix pulsed a warm wash of approval through Optimus like a distant ocean lapping up on a shore. It lulled his troubled thoughts down toward resignation. The tight knot of concern unraveled slowly as the sea of support distanced him from current events in a cradle of liquid validation. Optimus had been good. He was doing his duty. No one could ask more of him, and the hollow clutch in his chest informed him of that fact until he believed it. He had to believe it.

Soundwave’s hands trembled, but they gave his plating a firm going-over that relaxed the ex-Prime further. He wondered absently what Starscream would do to the poor mech this time. He realized, mildly surprised, that it’d stopped bothering him. He couldn’t control Starscream. There didn’t seem to be a point in worrying about a situation he couldn’t change.

When the door slid back open, Optimus was ready to stand and face the door with a serene smile at the ready. “Lord Starscream.” The bow was reflexive and genuinely devoted. The interface cables coiled at the ready in his chest ached pleasantly. Skywarp had generated more of a charge than he’d taken from the ex-Prime, and Optimus was used to being prepared to please.

He was given a critical look. “That’s better. Slave!”

Soundwave shuddered when Starscream skewered him with a glare next. The Seeker snapped his fingers and pointed at the floor before his feet imperiously. Wringing a polishing cloth between his hands anxiously, the eunuch knee-walked forward. Disobedience wasn’t an option for him. His pace slowed the closer he got to blue thrusters, however, and he crouched lower and lower to the floor. By the time he reached Starscream’s feet, he was inching along with his neck twisted to look up.

Starscream peered down at him, expression haughty. “Stand up.”

Optimus wanted to say something. He wondered what difference it’d make. 

Shivering terribly, Soundwave managed to obey after two false starts. The marionette clumsiness of his limbs was made worse by dread, because Starscream could turn his life into a living nightmare if displeased enough. When he finally got to his feet, he swayed in place a little. His hands played with the polishing cloth, and he kept his gaze respectfully downcast as possible while still keeping the Seeker’s mouth in sight. 

Starscream studied him. After a full klik of silence, he snorted and put a hand on one hip as he turned to look back into the guard room. “This is what you want? **This**?”

“Well, um.” Brawl shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably behind him. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re offering.”

The blue-and-red Seeker glanced up at the ceiling as if appealing to Primus for patience. “This is the stupidest reward for service anyone’s ever asked for.” 

“It’s not like I can take ‘em back to my quarters!” Brawl protested with a vague gesture at the two harem slave blatantly staring at the two Decepticons in the doorway. “And they’re kinda a one-time deal, so -- y’know, why not?” He rolled his hands as if searching for an explanation. “Don’t need anything special. Just want him.”

Optimus’ smile grew less placid. A tinge of something like amusement and wonder bubbled in his spark at Starscream’s baffled, annoyed look. It was obvious that the flyer thought Brawl had gone off his treads. Asking for the harem _eunuch_ as a reward instead of a turn _in_ the harem? Madness! Just what had gotten into Brawl?

Soundwave’s shoulders were hunched in preparation for a blow, but his head turned a fraction to stare past Starscream at the Combaticon. There might have been, perhaps, a tiny touch of hope in that look.

An irritated _harrumph_ of air vented out of the Seeker, and then Starscream grabbed Soundwave’s chin to jerk him back around. The polishing cloth dropped to the floor unnoticed as the boxy slave immediately clenched his hands together in front of his gutted Cassette tray. The pleading gesture shook from how tense Soundwave held himself, and the wide visor paled in fear as Starscream leaned forward to hiss in his face, making _sure_ the deaf-mute could read his lips.

“You serve him now, scum.” A choked sound of disbelief came from Megatron before the ex-tyrant caught himself. Starscream didn’t stop speaking. “When your duties in the harem are finished, your ugly, useless carcass belongs to him.” Soundwave flailed, unbalanced, as Starscream’s hand snaked around to seize the back of his neck and jerk him forward. “If you displease him,” the Seeker’s voice lowered to a dangerous tone Optimus could barely hear, “you displease **me**. Understood?”

Soundwave shook so hard his knees gave out, and he dropped to the floor to cower even as he nodded again and again. 

Starscream glared down at him coolly but spoke to the Combaticon behind him. “This is what you want? You’re **certain**.” 

Brawl looked down at the ex-officer groveling before Starscream’s thrusters. His head cocked to the side, and he reached up to scratch at his cannon barrel the way other mechs ran a hand over their helms. “Guess so. Just gotta keep the others off him and maybe fix up his visor a bit, but -- “

“This is not a **privilege** for him.” Bright wings fanned up and back in righteous indignation. “He is yours to **use** , not **date**!”

“Oh, no!” That rang an actual guffaw from the tank, which took Starscream by surprise if the startled glance back was any indication. “Aw, frag no, not gonna happen. I meant that the others are gonna want t’ get their hands on him ‘cause, uh, I got him an’ they don’t, y’know?”

Optimus could feel Megatron’s wary suspicion ratchet up behind him, but Starscream merely snorted a blast of hot air. “Spare him from whomever you wish or rent him out for all I care, but **I** will handle the other Combaticons. It seems to me that there are a great number of things the Empire needs them to do far away from here, for a long period of time.” His lips curved in a singularly nasty smirk. “At least a stellar-cycle, if not six.”

Curiosity prickled across Optimus mind. Could combiner teams go that long without uniting? But Brawl was giving an evil snicker instead of protesting, so…maybe?

“Yessir,” Brawl said with relish. “C’mere, scrapheap.” He stomped a foot to get Soundwave’s attention. The slave flinched and glanced wildly between jet and tank.

Was this change good or bad for Soundwave? Optimus didn’t know, but he had to wonder. The boxy blue mech oozing toward Starscream’s thrusters to caress them looked stuck somewhere between fear and -- what looked like a quivery, tight-strung gratitude. That didn’t mean Brawl wasn’t going to abuse him in every way possible, but better to thank the Seeker for generosity rather than irritate him further by begging mercy, perhaps. The unknown future might be better than the horrible present. It almost had to be. The life of the harem eunuch was not easy.

Starscream let him bow and scrape for a klik before kicking him away. “Fine. Keep him out of my sight once he’s brought us the tray. And for Primus’ sake,” he grimaced, “don’t frag him on duty!” 

“Uh. Okay, yeah, won’t happen again.” Embarrassed, Brawl retreated out of sight in the guard room. Soundwave gave Starscream one more nakedly vulnerable look of gratitude before crawling past him. 

The red-and-blue flyer strode into the harem, wings held high and proud as he met Optimus’ optics confidently. “Well, now that **business** is taken care of, perhaps we can get back to pleasure.” 

“Of course, my Lord.” Optimus dipped into another deep bow. “Will our master be joining us tonight?” In other words, should he be prepared to kneel and serve, or was he to be the background slave in Starscream’s ongoing powergame with Megatron? He didn’t necessarily mind satisfying the Seeker after Starscream was done fragging Megatron over, but it was always good to know if their master would crash the party and expect Optimus’ instant attention. Optimus tried to be aroused and ready to serve on command, but a warning was nice. Ratbat valued efficiency. 

“No, I think I’m more than enough for you to handle right now, since it seems **manners** have been forgotten in my absence.” The acidic barb got a wry smile from the ex-Prime and a subdued growl of anger from Megatron. The Seeker’s former commander had reclaimed his chair and obstinately refused to stand as Starscream leisurely strolled over to look down at him. “No greeting for me, Megatron? Must I retrain you?”

It was a sweetly poisonous reminder of a slave’s place. Optimus walked toward the door to shut it as Megatron evidently debated defying the Seeker yet again. That was up to Megatron alone. Optimus could no more change the silver mech’s mind than he could free himself. Even if he had either ability, he didn’t want them. Primes served. This was his place, and accepting it was how he coped. He couldn’t cope for anyone else but himself.

Strained words broke the impasse at last. “Hello, **Lord** Starscream,” was bitten out, words chopped up by hatred but clear. When Optimus turned at the door to look back, he saw that Megatron’s resolve had broken under the brush of a single curled finger down the side of his face. Touch, denied to the ex-tyrant from anyone else, gave Starscream the control over Megatron that the Seeker had always craved. And it was by that power that the feral beast of the harem surrendered.

As much as he ever did, that was. Enough to turn his head into the only hand the slave bands allowed near him, and open his mouth for the kiss Starscream bent to claim him with. 

Out in the guard room, Brawl had sat behind the desk again and was chuckling to himself over something on the console screen. Soundwave was using the entryway’s doorframe to pull himself to his feet, about to start toward the dispensary. Brawl peered over the screen and whistled at the scuffed blue aft, despite the fact that the senses-neutered slave couldn’t hear him.

Optimus shook his head and thought that this, too, he’d get used to.

 

**[* * * * *]**

 

**_[ A/N:_** Born of an intense anger at myself for having so many WIP, I decided to finish something. This is it. **]**


	5. Pt. 5: Unforgiven

**Title:** Tyrant of the Seraglio, Pt. 5: Unforgiven  
 **Warning:** READ THE WARNINGS, PLEASE  
Slavery  
Coercion  
Mutilation (referenced)  
Torture (non-gore)  
Clean floors  
 **Rating:** PG-13   
**Continuity:** IDW/G1 (AU)  
 **Characters:** Soundwave, Ratbat  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Shibara drew a picture of Brawl petting his personal slave. Soundwave looked too happy in it. Something had to be done about that.

 

**[* * * * *]**   
**Pt. 5: Unforgiven**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Soundwave was in much better shape than three weeks ago. The half-extinguished visor glowed fully online again, crushed optic bulbs plucked out and replaced one by one, and the crack down the center of the glass visor had been repaired. His plating, though still not armor-grade or polished to a shine, had a new coat of paint covering the age-worn, abuse-scratched previous coat. The dents had been pulled out of the empty space where his Cassette docks had been. The metal was thinner there, internal plating with its protective glass lid removed. It bent easily, and the sanded-flat spots where equipment had been were especially vulnerable. Anyone out to cause him pain always took a punch there. Now it lay smooth again, dully buffed.

More than anything, the biggest change to his appearance was how he held himself. The half-cringing scurry had relaxed. Perpetual fear had eased, and the boxy blue mech worked with the steady concentration of someone who had tasks to finish, not a slave scrambling under a lash that could fall any moment.

This had worked out so, so much better than he’d dared dream. Soundwave had hatched his plan on a moment’s desperate inspiration, but for all its spontaneity, it had turned into a solid arrangement. Brawl had stepped into the role of patron as if made for it, and Soundwave threw himself into personal service in return. He positively showered Brawl with gratitude for taking an interest in him. It was what he’d hoped for when venturing the offer, but there was a vast difference between using his body to buy a few shifts free of abuse and having Brawl officially _ask_ for him as a reward. 

Starscream, as far as the inhabitants of the harem could tell, had removed the rest of the Combaticons from the guard roster. Appointing Brawl the head of the harem guard boosted the tank’s status among the regular palace guard, since he’d been essentially been given supervision over the entire wing of the palace. He had free hand to pick whomever he wanted for replacement guards to fill the harem shifts. On top of that, Starscream had given him Soundwave as a personal slave. Whether or not anyone else actually _wanted_ the harem’s deaf-mute eunuch, the fact that Brawl _had_ him made him a token of high favor. 

It’d taken Brawl about two days to figure out the political ramifications of his promotion. That was the night he’d bought the box of optic bulbs and tossed them to Soundwave. The slave had fumbled the catch and would have dropped them if Optimus hadn’t scooped them from his hand.

“Are these for Soundwave?” Optimus had asked their guard, courteously keeping his mouth turned toward Soundwave. The boxy blue mech couldn’t hear or see what Brawl had said in return, but Optimus had smiled warmly. “Thank you, Brawl. You are very kind.”

Soundwave couldn’t hear or see what Brawl said in response, but he’d already been trembling in pure gratitude. He didn’t have repair privileges. He was only hauled to the Constructicons if someone kicked the scrap out of him. Optimus had to carefully clear his blind side for him and install the tiny optic bulbs, since Soundwave didn’t have the manual dexterity to repair himself. He’d bowed before the ex-Prime’s trying to communicate his thanks, but he’d thrown himself at Brawl’s feet in almost worshipful gratitude. The optic bulbs were an unimaginable gift. 

With Brawl as his protector, the ambushes in the halls all but stopped. Soundwave could fulfill his duties without dread filling his every waking moment, knowing that anytime he left the safety of the harem he became a target for torture and abuse. He could barely process the relief from nonstop fear. 

Optimus had called Brawl kind. Soundwave considered that an understatement equal to calling himself defeated. It was true…but.

It wasn’t kindness without strings, however. In return for protection, the tank wanted to be pampered and taken care of. Soundwave was more than happy to do that. He strove to please the Combaticon however he could. Brawl didn’t have to be kind, after all. A slave didn’t have a choice about serving whom he was given to, cruel or kind. All he could do was encourage the kindness by going above and beyond mere good behavior.

Serving Brawl wasn’t a hardship. He expected Soundwave to not slack off. He demanded the eunuch work more pulling double-duty in the harem as well as serving him, but he didn’t tend to raise his hand to the mech for no reason. Between the repairs and the tank’s casual defense whenever Soundwave left the harem now, the former communications specialist felt like he was in paradise. After vorns of abuse, even a few changes made slavery seem bearable.

Soundwave paused in his scrubbing and bowed his head, taking a moment to cycle a deep ventilation and reflect on his good fortune. He’d long ago accepted a life of slavery. He was enough of a realist to take what he’d been handed and be _content_. He was content. As much as a broken mech could be, anyway. 

Brawl’s shift would end soon. He’d sent the eunuch to his quarters to clean the floor so it would be dry by the time he returned. Soundwave didn’t know what he intended once he came back, but the slave intended to offer a massage, maybe more if the tank seemed in the mood. Brawl often was, and Soundwave did nothing to discourage him. A happy tank was a generous tank, and a generous tank sometimes reciprocated. 

Soundwave had nearly forgotten what pleasure felt like, much less how an overload did. It was easy to get addicted to the drunken energy flux of a tactile, vibration-based overload pulsing through his systems. He would never dare push Brawl into returning the favor, as it were -- he was very well aware of his status as the lowest of the low -- but the Combaticon wasn’t that bright. A little bit of subtle manipulation could be done even by the lowest of the low. Brawl would never notice.

The door moved at the corner of his restored vision, and Soundwave glanced up almost eagerly.

Three weeks hadn’t been enough time. There would never be enough time. 

Every micron a humble, debased slave, Soundwave snapped his gaze back to the floor and cowered. Small. He had to be small and broken. He was nothing. He was nobody. He was furniture. He was background noise, a shadow to be ignored. He was beneath notice. He was below contempt. 

He was shaking, because he already knew it wouldn’t work. 

Even with his forehelm to the ground between his arms, Soundwave was hyperaware of Ratbat’s presence as small feet strode into the room. There was no benign excuse for the ex-Cassetticon to be here. These were Brawl’s quarters. There was no reason for the leader of the Decepticons, the ruler of Cybertron, Soundwave’s lord and Master, to come to a Combaticon’s quarters. 

No reason but him.

He could see just enough of the floor ahead of himself that the feet walking toward him were visible. They approached at a measured, even pace that spoke volumes about his captor, owner, _torturer’s_ mood. Ratbat’s displeasure loomed larger than his small frame did, and Soundwave cringed into an even tighter huddle trying to hide from it. No. No _please_ , it’d been vorns! He couldn’t hear, he couldn’t speak, he couldn’t communicate. He’d been stripped of his hardware and locked out of his software. Hadn’t he been punished enough? 

He’d been enslaved and made to regret his entire life. Was there no slagging way to appease this mech?

The mech he’d deceived, forcefully reformatted, and kept in servitude as a Cassette for millions of years during the war. Soundwave already knew the answer.

The feet in front of him came to a halt. He peeked at them before directing his visor back to the floor as he’d been taught. It was respectful. He remembered that full well. The lessons in showing respect to his betters had been ground deep, and humbled as he was, he’d learned them by spark. He’d accepted his place with painful humility. He would obey, he would serve, he would do _anything_ , just please spare him!

The feet just stood there waiting, unaffected by his silent pleas. They were still small, even after Ratbat had upgraded frames. Format changes were harder to undo than do. Soundwave should know. He’d inflicted the initial size downgrade knowing that the humiliation would stick to the former Senator even if the mech somehow escaped him.

Well, Ratbat had escaped. The new leader of Cybertron had turned every micron of humiliation back on him a hundredfold for the insult. 

Those feet didn’t need to be large to grind down on Soundwave’s neck. The ex-communication specialist forced himself forward on his belly, shaking and sick to his tanks. It was a terrible rite, but a familiar one. Ratbat wanted his submission, and it was either proffer it willingly or wish desperately that he had.

So he prostrated himself flat on the floor and nuzzled his face against one small foot, shaking in terror. Submission only made the worst slightly less painful to endure. 

Hook and Knock Out had left him a single intact port when they gutted his hardware, and even that was a joke. The port wouldn’t work without access authorization and a completion socket built into the tip of the compatible jack. The only ones with the correct codes and compatible jacks were the Constructions -- and Ratbat. Soundwave shuddered and whimpered silently as cold metal slipped into the back of his neck.

His software greeted the primary usercode, and everything that Soundwave was opened under it. Every firewall he had was rendered useless. They belonged to his primary user. The owner of his body. His Master. Every piece of software he ran answered to someone else, and that someone else opened him up like a book now, paging through and reading him. Outside commands slid coolly into his mind and did whatever they wanted without his consent, beyond his control, but with his knowledge. Ratbat liked him to know what was being done to him.

A powerful voice rang through his head, overriding all other thought processes. Ratbat spoke, and it hurt. It deafened audios that didn’t exist, maxed out a vocalizer that had been surgically removed, slashed nerve sensors across his body, and blinded him. His mind reeled from the assault. He spasmed silently on the floor under the punishing mental slap of each word.

_SLAVE._

Yes Master please Master he’s been a good slave Master

_YOU THINK YOU ARE CLEVER._

No Master he’s just a slave Master he’s a loyal slave Master please

_YOU HAVE NOT EARNED THIS REPRIEVE._

Please be merciful please Master please he works hard he serves Brawl well he does he swears it

_YOU BELONG TO ME. NOT TO BRAWL. YOU SERVE **ME**._

The last thought blasted into his processor, and Soundwave writhed in agony on the floor as Ratbat pressed the inexorable fact of ownership into him in a constriction of software. It felt as if his owner reached into his mind and closed a fist around his brain. Programs shrieked, closing and opening and crashing until feedback had his vents panting sobbing bursts of hot air. His body fought to stay online. All the while, his mind babbled a constant stream of agreement, pleas for forgiveness, and flat-out begging for mercy on a good slave, a sorry slave, his Master’s devoted slave. It devolved into gibberish nonsense as pain drove him to the brink of sanity.

When Ratbat finally relented, Soundwave lay at his feet twitching slightly. 

_BRAWL IS FAVORED BY ME. YOU ARE NOT. NOT YOU. DO NOT FORGET THAT._

N-no Master n-e-e-e

Never Master

He-e is

He is a g-go-od-od slave 

Master he s-serves

He serves B-Brawl to ser-r-rve

To serve his Master

Good s-slave

He is g-good-d

_YOU GET ABOVE YOURSELF, SLAVE._

The phrasing alone shot horror through Soundwave, knocking his dazed mind back into coherent thought out of sheer panic. Not that, please!

Master

No please no

Master have mercy have pity on a good slave

He wants to serve let him serve he needs to be able to walk carry move

_YOU DESERVE TO CRAWL._

No no no nono nononononoooo

_YES._

Soundwave cried out, noiseless protest, but the extent of his ability to fight back was to tense his hands into claws on the floor. Inside his head, Ratbat’s icy touch paged through the laborious, clumsy work-arounds he’d cobbled together in the millennia since he’d been neutered. One by one, they were thrust to the forefront of his processor. He pleaded, promising anything, anything at all, just tell him what he could _do_ and he’d do it, _please_. His mind crawled, groveling in a debased, panicked flurry of thoughts bared for Ratbat’s enjoyment.

Making sure Soundwave helplessly witnessed every disappearing number, Ratbat deleted bits of the code in a slow torture that went on and on. The manual access to his gyros allowing him to balance on his feet. The actuators in his ankles. The fine motor control in his hip and knee joints so he could shift his weight while walking. Ratbat took away his ability to feel how tightly he closed his hands, and the hydraulic releases in his elbows joints. Without those, he couldn’t pick things up, and if he did, his elbows would unlock under the weight. 

Ratbat ruthlessly stripped away vorns of effort in a few short minutes, and Soundwave moaned inside his head because he could do nothing to stop it.

_HOW USEFUL ARE YOU NOW?_

Despair flooded him. His protection from the vengeful mechs hinged on his value to Brawl. Soundwave lay on the floor twitching, and he wasn’t even sure he’d be able to crawl from the room. What possible use could the Combaticon have for a slave who couldn’t even stand up? 

_YOU ARE WORTHLESS._

Soundwave dimmed his visor and tried not to think about how vulnerable he’d be during the long, slow trek from harem to dispensary, and then the even slower journey back, sliding refreshment trays along the floor while he hauled himself along in jerky, uncoordinated movements. He remembered how long it would take. He’d done it before, and he knew exactly what abuse would be waiting in the halls for him. Every mech Brawl had turned away in the last three weeks would take the opportunity to punish him. Every single one would be back.

_IT IS WHAT YOU DESERVE, SLAVE._

Three weeks of blissful memories would torture him for the next unknown number of vorns in the Pit. Primus spare his spark.

_THANK ME, SOUNDWAVE._

The crippled, mute, and deaf slave shivered violently. His hands made a tiny motion on the floor, uncertain and afraid, and his visor blinked back on. _Thank_ him? Thank him for mauling his software and locking him out of repairing the damage? His existence was a sick toy for his owner’s amusement, he knew that, but the raw despair delayed obedience for a critical second.

Ratbat scowled down at him, and Soundwave knew because static scored white-hot lashes of burning agony across his processor. The boxy blue mech kicked, twisting up on the floor as he clutched his head and silently suffered.

_PERHAPS YOU BELIEVE I HAVE NOT SHOWN MERCY UPON YOU?_

No no M-Master please

S-sorry please

_I CAN BE A CRUEL MASTER. SHALL I SHOW YOU **CRUELTY** , SOUNDWAVE?_

N-no no-o

Mas-mas-master

Master is-s mercif-ful

He is-s-s gr-grateful for his mer-merciful Master

V-very grateful so so so

So gr-grateful

He d-deser-erves this Master is m-merciful for giv-iving him what he deserves

Please pun-nish

Please punish him

He d-eserves it he does please he’s grat-teful

His M-master is merciful please no more

Please

Pity

Pardon

Pl-ease have

_WHY SHOULD I?_

Soundwave uncurled and inched across the floor to nudge and nuzzle small feet in frantic submission. He knew it was a game. He knew Ratbat wanted to humiliate and bring him lower yet. Making him scrape was nothing but one step in ongoing revenge, and Ratbat inevitably had worse torture lined up. But if it pleased Ratbat even a little, then Soundwave could only play along in hopes of at least appeasing a bit of his anger.

Prostrate inside and out, he begged. He was Ratbat’s, mind and body. He was a good slave. Please let him serve.

He’d been a fool to think he could plan for a better life. Brawl couldn’t protect him, not from his owner. Not when Ratbat’s mastery over him was this complete. It didn’t matter what he looked like on the outside, or in whose bed he slept. He was Ratbat’s slave, and he could never, ever escape that.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	6. Pt. 6: Observer

**Title:** Tyrant of the Seraglio, Pt. 6: Observer  
 **Warning:** READ THE WARNINGS, PLEASE  
Slavery  
Coercion  
Rape  
Torture (psychological)  
Starscream  
 **Rating:** PG-13   
**Continuity:** IDW/G1 (AU)  
 **Characters:** Optimus, Starscream, Megatron  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Touch.

 

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part 6: Observer**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Starscream was often moody. Peace or not, that hadn’t changed. 

How he reacted to Megatron’s provocation hadn’t changed, either. It wasn’t often than the former Air Commander met Megatron’s surliness with unruffled good humor. Typically if Megatron wanted to provoke the flyer into a fight, Starscream ended up storming out the harem in a fit of pique. 

Nothing more than that, however. Try as Megatron might to prick Starscream into actual physical retaliation, he failed. Fights with Starscream resulted in a murderous glare, bitten-off words, and then the Seeker would turn and leave. 

Whatever satisfaction Megatron got from that reaction wasn’t worth the punishment. Defiance earned the ex-tyrant a quarter stellar cycle or more of complete tactile restriction until he lost the attitude. The slave bands around his wrists restricted him from touching or being touched unless he grudgingly bent his knees to the rulers of the harem.

Optimus distantly admired Ratbat’s technique. Not that the former Senator didn’t have a cunning mind or hadn’t had far too much time trapped as a Cassette to decide on a plan, but seeing his plot to fruition from up close gave Optimus real perspective on what level of detail had been put into play. Ratbat had planned everything out to an excruciating degree.

Optimus tended to think of breaking mechs in terms of pain. This breaking hadn’t been a sudden snap. Nothing was damaged. If anything, it was a bending, a stretch of willpower and pride. It wasn’t painful in the literal definition of the word. Very rarely had the slave bonds been turned on to do more than shock Megatron. The jolts were meant to discourage unwanted behavior, or knock the silver mech’s motor control out if Megatron kept pushing.

Which he did, because it was Megatron and Megatron would never surrender. He was too old, too proud, and too stubborn. 

Ratbat hadn’t tried to break him via pain. That was the clever part. Ratbat had simply cornered the ex-tyrant. Megatron had the option of beating himself senselessly against the bonds and the restrictions -- or. There was always another option, an ‘or.’ Ratbat never pushed him to take it. The option just existed. It was a _choice_ , laid out in the open waiting for Megatron to take it.

That was the part Optimus had to admire. It had made him sick, for a while, but he’d come to respect it for what it had done to a foe the ex-Prime himself had failed to defeat. Whenever Megatron knelt, whenever he stopped trying to smash the furniture or assault the guards, it was his choice. He served Ratbat’s purposes well enough just being a prisoner in the harem. With the slave bands on, he couldn’t go anywhere. He couldn’t do anything. The action-reaction hobbler wired into him from the bands dialed down his strength. He was weak as a cyberhound pup and trapped on display.

He was decorative enough given his former status and current polished state that Ratbat had no problem indulging his stubborn pride. Their Master allowed Megatron to _choose_ to cause property damage or belligerently refuse any or all orders. 

Megatron couldn’t escape the harem, and the guards kept him from harming Optimus or any guests if he struck out through the pain and weakness. He could beat himself against the prison walls all he wished. He was still in the harem, there to be seen and unable to leave. It was only when he _chose_ to take the option Ratbat left open for him that he was granted a trickle of privilege. The hobblers were dialed back. He was allowed to speak to the guests instead of having his vocalizer disabled during every visit. If he chose to obey to commands, he was even permitted touch again.

There was no secret to how Megatron was tamed. Ratbat made it very clear that the option to choose was always there. It wasn’t surrender. Megatron either bent or he didn’t, but the choice was up to him. He never lost his pride, whatever he chose to do. 

The mind, Optimus knew, could be warped by enough psychological torture. It could also warp any situation to fit its own standards, if given enough time and reason to chip the edges of logic away. Even square peg could be twisted into a round hole once the corners wore down. Megatron had gradually, snarling and hating the entire time, reasoned his way into servitude. 

Better to kneel than barely be unable to stand the rest of the time. Better to address their lord and Master respectfully than be unable to speak at all. Better to obey the commands of guests than be denied the information they brought.

Better to serve as a harem slave than remain a display in a harem cage.

Over all, better to accept Starscream’s touch than be completely, painlessly but agonizingly isolated. Megatron did not _have_ to obey his former subordinate’s orders. He didn’t, often enough. After well over 100 vorns of hammering against the walls of refusal, however, Megatron usually _chose_ to obey. He knew there were no consequences of disobedience beyond losing what privileges bending his neck bought, but losing what he’d earned cost his pride more than not having them in the first place.

It wasn’t surrender, whatever it looked like from the outside. Megatron would refuse Optimus’ graceful servitude forever. Every instance of obedience was as carefully calculated by Megatron as offering it was by Ratbat.

Starscream played the power game just as adeptly. Amazing the difference being coached by someone who appreciated the flyer’s skills and mind made. Ratbat’s leadership had brought the Seeker to the pinnacle of power. Optimus had no idea if the mech was still as treacherous toward Ratbat as he’d been toward Megatron; all politics were strictly kept from the harem. It was the one category of information the two former faction leaders starved for.

So here in the harem, Starscream never missed a step in Ratbat’s overarching scheme. He would get angry, of course, because Starscream would always be Starscream, but losing his temper resulted in leaving the harem, not taking it out on Megatron. He wouldn’t give Megatron the satisfaction of cracking him. The gameplan continued uninterrupted. 

And that’s how Ratbat won. That’s why Megatron bent, even if he didn’t break. Breaking the ex-tyrant wasn’t the point. Taming a wild creature left it with spirit, the fiery allure of having something magnificently beautiful choosing to serve. Breaking Megatron would provide only a too-brief, easy satisfaction.

Optimus believed Ratbat knew this ploy ensnared Starscream as well as Megatron. It’d be typical of their owner to manipulate everyone in one all-encompassing scheme. Counseled to patience, Starscream had invested a lot into seeing Megatron humble himself before him. Ratbat deftly guided them both.

The ex-Prime sat on the side of the bed, hands resting in his lap and optics calm as he watched Megatron bend. Pleasure pulsed across his circuits from the leads he’d carefully, quietly connected while Starscream’s attention had been elsewhere. His role in this game was that of a background prop. Even now, the Seeker didn’t look at him. Blinding white charge flashed across his plating in rushes of intense contact whenever he shifted to rub the flat of one wing against Optimus’ shoulder, but the former Prime was a conduit, a means to an overload. The actual root cause of Starscream’s pleasure had no connection to the flyer other than a few fingers.

In the center of the bed, hands curled into involuntarily tense claws on the pillows as those fingers made contact. Megatron hid his face from sight and choked on a groan. Starscream smiled and leisurely drew a meandering line down the middle of the silver mech’s back, and Megatron’s chest rose off the cushions. Silver plating rose to meet blue fingers, pushing up to press against them for every silky slide of contact against straining, greedy pressure sensors. Transmitted energy shimmered under Starscream’s fingertips as Megatron’s hypersensitive sensors activated in a flurry of transfers. The simple back-and-forth from the touch of living metal became an electric current. 

Megatron wasn’t permitted to touch or be touched by anyone unless he submitted. Three fingers stroking down his back encapsulated everything he’d been denied. Everything that he’d been denying himself. Defenses bolstering by the rage of a prisoner collapsed. Optimus could see his mouth open against the bed’s surface, teeth biting uselessly into it, and still air sobbed in against stuttering fans.

Starscream very lightly, just once, pressed the palm of his hand against the small of Megatron’s back. Silver and black thighs jerked apart, feet flexed, and that powerful body _writhed_ as a flash-bulb flare of charge burst across Megatron’s EM field. White light faster and brighter than a sodium explosion turned pale plating reflective. Megatron _glowed_ for a fraction of a second. It was a humiliatingly visible sign of instant excitement. His body begged for touch.

He grunted, clamping down on a more vulnerable sound that wanted to be a plea, but his elbows dragged in to support his chest, allowing him to buck up into that hand. Black hands shook and almost folded together before he tightened them into fists instead.

“Down,” Starscream said, amused, but red optics were hot. Optimus vented deeply as the charge built as inevitably as a tsunami in the distance. 

Megatron growled, jaw at a stubborn angle, and the blue hand lifted until only the barest tip of a single finger remained. The stuttered fans released panting blasts of hot air, but Megatron collapsed back down onto his front, prostrate. His helm turned away from Starscream’s avid gaze to hide the almost hurt grimace he wore. 

In reward, the fingertip pushed down a tad bit harder. Starscream began drawing small circles up the middle of the ex-tyrant’s back. Tension brought Megatron’s elbows under him again, but this time he kept his face buried in the bed as his vocalizer scratched harsh nonwords. Neck cabling creaked from strain. His chest didn’t _quite_ leave the bed’s surface.

“I said ‘down’.”

Optimus listened to the strangled whine, nearly inaudible, and wondered if Megatron would bend enough today for Starscream to guide him touch by touch over onto his back. Slowly, line by line, he’d place the ex-tyrant’s interface cables into Megatron’s mouth. It was, Optimus had to admit, one of the best shows in the harem. It wasn’t touch, but it was a close substitute. Megatron would struggle to keep his arms obediently over his head while sucking frantically on a cycle of charge pushed higher and higher by small, chaste touches on starved sensors, and the power of having Megatron under his hands would drive Starscream to overload twice, maybe three times while connected to Optimus.

The spectacle bothered the former Prime, but it also raised his core temperature. Self-service never looked so good as when Megatron arched into overload at long last, perhaps under a gentle kiss or from a firm hand placed on his abdomen. 

Optimus distantly admired Ratbat’s technique. He guiltily admired Starscream’s.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	7. Pt. 7: Realist

**Title:** Tyrant of the Seraglio, Pt. 7: Realist  
 **Warning:** READ THE WARNINGS, PLEASE  
Slavery  
Coercion  
Depression  
Torture (psychological)  
Compromise  
 **Rating:** PG-13   
**Continuity:** IDW/G1 (AU)  
 **Characters:** Optimus, Megatron, Soundwave  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** A moment’s weakness.

 

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part 7: Realist**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

He didn’t seriously believe he’d get free.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Strength of conviction. With it, he would forever strive to be free. Without it, he would surrender and fade, becoming less himself every time the harem door opened. Slavery was intended to wear him down until he was an empty body gutted of who he’d been. He was currently a harem slave, that was his reality, but slave bands and chains couldn’t erase his past. Megatron was everything he had been and still was. Accepting slavery would take that away from him.

“I’m still whom I was,” Optimus said. “I’ve simply accepted how the present and future define me going forward.”

Megatron frowned. “You’re not who you once were. You’re less.”

“I’m a slave,” Optimus replied. It was a fact and an answer. Plain, unadorned, undeniable fact. Of course he was less: he was no longer a free mech. He no longer considered himself anyone’s equal. He had no rights. He’d been stripped of the Primacy. Instead of leading, he served. 

His argument lay in his sense of self despite being a slave. He argued that becoming a slave didn’t deny him his history, but it took him as he’d been to make him into what he must be. It had been vorns, but he still claimed to be Optimus, if not Optimus Prime. A slave couldn’t be Optimus Prime, but Optimus could be a slave. Megatron’s argument was the opposite, that Optimus Prime was no more. He’d completely changed upon accepting slavery. There was no point to keeping even part of the designation, since he was no longer truly Optimus.

He didn’t yet have an answer to satisfy Optimus’ question over whether or not a slave could be Megatron, or did Megatron cease to exist when he became a slave. Their argument tended to circle at that point, as the ex-tyrant staunchly asserted that it was a purely hypothetical question. He hadn’t accepted slavery. He never would.

His fingers picked idly at the wide, ornate bands of armor around his wrist and forearm, checking the welds. The habit earned him a frown from the ex-Prime, but they were talking about something else at the moment. Chiding him for bad habits would happen later on in the day if they weren’t interrupted. Their lives cycled. The harem had a routine to it, repeating the same conversations every time around. 

Megatron huffed. It held more irritation than the old, tired argument usually carried. Curious, Optimus cocked his head to the side, which was more emotion than the former Prime normally showed anymore. In such a controlled environment, introducing a new element affected everything. 

Something was different. Optimus gave him an interested look, clearly noticing the change. Was Megatron breaking the routine?

One end of Megatron’s mouth twisted in a small grimace, less a sneer at the Autobot than disgust at himself, and he looked away. Was he breaking the routine? Good question. A better one would be whether or not he was capable of doing so. He’d thought he could, but doubt had had a long time to undermine him.

The chair scraped across the floor as he violently shoved back from the table, and he rose to stalk across the room. Optimus’ aft tempted him to grab it in passing, but Megatron regarded the urge almost clinically. Did he want to touch the ex-Prime because he craved touch, any touch, or because it was a show of resistance to a master who indulgently allowed him his small defiances? Ratbat had effectively broken him to heel. Resisting was a show he put on for no one but his own pride. 

The slave-bands would sting him if he got too close to anyone. The welds were secure. Testing either wouldn’t change the outcome of prior attempts. He kept pushing the boundaries set on him despite knowing he couldn’t escape them. At the moment, he couldn’t recall why it was important to keep trying.

Any other time, he would dart a hand toward Optimus and tell himself it was part of a lifetime of harassing the Autobot leader. It seemed like a separate lifetime. Megatron the tyrant was over and done with. Megatron the slave did these things from habit. 

It didn’t matter if he tried to grab Optimus or not. The former Prime gave him the same reaction every time. His expression would stay unchanged by surprise or consternation as he stepped away. He moved counter to Megatron with the worn, weary patience of a dancer following his oldest partner’s lead. There was no deviation, no variation, just repetitive action-reaction.

It didn’t seem worth the effort, right now. He wanted a real reaction, an honest knee-jerk flash of combat metal-memory showing through the tedium. He wanted a moment of no thought, just action. He wanted Optimus to smack his hand aside and do more than look at him through a veil of apathy as the slave-bands shocked him for attempting to grab for what he couldn’t have. He wanted to destroy furniture and have Brawl barrel through the door to tackle him, really throw himself into a grappling, rolling, cursing and struggling _fight_ to subdue him. He wanted to _feel_. He wanted the excitement of the unknown instead of the ground-down bitter leftovers of old pride and anger.

He hated being hobbled by the behavioral controls. They dialed up or down depending on how his _owner_ approved of his attitude. The wristlets zapped him if he disobeyed the strict tactile limitations on him, punishing for his presumption, but the shocks were less painful than just surprising. They were training shocks used to direct a technimal instead of the punishing jolts means to floor a prisoner. He wasn’t treated as a prisoner. He was treated as a valued, dangerous treasure wrapped carefully for display, all pretty and polished inside a locked box. 

He was a fighter and always had been. The enforced inactivity of the harem grated on his nerves nearly as much as the inhibitors chaining him from accessing his full strength. There was nothing to do, and no outlet for his frustrations. His rage spent itself against the harem walls, and they didn’t react. Anything that would give him fuel to burn, something to anticipate or feed his rebellious nature with had been stripped away. He had nothing but hands-off restraint, guards who activated the slave-bands and gingerly held him down until he stopped cursing and fighting against the floor, and a former enemy who didn’t care. 

It infuriated him.

But it was an old rage, sapped of its burn. It felt the way he felt lately. 

So he crossed the room, ignoring Optimus for once, because he’d been burnt out. 

The ex-Prime noticed the difference. When Megatron stopped as close to the window as he was allowed, not even toeing the line, he heard the other harem slave turning to give him a long look. The slight movement was more than he’d expected. Megatron didn’t think he’d get even that much of a reaction, much less something as extreme as inquiring as to what was wrong. He was right. Optimus went back to reading after a moment of silence that should have been expectant but wasn’t. 

The lack of interest probably said more about Optimus’ state of mind than his own. Optimus should have cared enough to ask, but he didn’t. Megatron should have kept enough stubborn denial to believe his old rival wanted to know, but he knew better. They both knew exactly how the cycle went inside the harem, and nothing truly changed.

The scenery outside the window had stopped being worth looking at once construction had finished. Up until then, the workers had sometimes tried to peer into the harem. Afterward, all that could be seen from the windows was the assembly square in one direction and the parade grounds in the other. Security kept anyone from approaching this wing, even from the outside. 

A small formation of palace guards was doing a drill on the parade ground, but Megatron couldn’t say that he found them fascinating. He stared out the window anyway, optics blank as he brooded. This wasn’t the first time he’d felt claustrophobic. The sense of being tightly confined came every time he paced the harem, but the creeping sense that he’d gotten used to restraints typically triggered a renewed burst of defiance. It did nothing but trigger resignation this time. 

He didn’t want to lash out in wild rebellion like he had a thousand times before. Struggling got him nowhere. At most, he’d receive a placid scolding from Optimus. Starscream tended to be amused, or perhaps irritated depending on if Megatron had lashed out at him. His former Air Commander’s wellspring of patience hadn’t grown, but Ratbat kept the Seeker on a short leash when it came to the harem. Megatron and Optimus never saw any conflict between them, if it happened, and Starscream stuck to their lord and Master’s plan. 

Lashing out would earn Megatron stellar cycles of weakness until he behaved enough to earn forgiveness. It seemed entirely pointless. Even talking to Optimus took too much effort at the moment. Megatron kept his back turned and let the recycled conversation lapse. Optimus made no attempt to restart it. He cared less than the former tyrant did.

The silence between them wasn’t the comfortable silence of shared quiet. They were two mechs wrapped in separate worlds, completely uninterested in an existence outside their own heads.

Megatron kept his measured distance from the window and wondered why this orn felt worse than the last. Perhaps he was depressed, or maybe he was merely adjusting to reality, slowly losing his deep-seated need to hold onto the past. He’d clung fiercely to the idea of the two of them someday returning to normal. 

War was normal, to him. He’d prefer it to his current circumstances. That definitely said something about him, and he didn’t like to think about what.

Optimus had surrendered as a willing slave to end the war. The ex-Prime was apathetic now, but he’d once cared deeply about the peace. He’d done everything in his power to promote it. He did still, although his enthusiasm had guttered. Losing the Primacy meant he had no political power, but he did have influence. It came from being a symbol, a glittering gem on display. Graceful acceptance of slavery gave him a sort of backward power. He used that power as much as he could to preserve, uphold, and obey. 

Megatron had no power whatsoever, but if he had, he would use it to destroy the peace. His freedom hinged on war. The ex-Prime held no sympathy for his anger, and he definitely didn’t support Megatron’s attempts to struggle free. Enslavement had ended the war, so Optimus agreed with it.

What power Megatron scraped up wasn’t real. He had petty dregs, taking what he could get away with. In the back of his mind where he didn’t usually acknowledge it, he knew that he acted above his station. The minor plots to escape or disrupt the harem were attempts to forget his place. In the end, his rebellions were dismissed, and he’d be forced to remember that his place was in the harem, inside the rooms that never changed, never granted permission to touch anyone. He’d be put down as the slave he was. 

He fought, but it was the fight of a gearspider scrabbling against a vacuum. He wasn’t going to win, but he stubbornly refused to concede.

Except that it didn’t seem worth fighting anymore. Fighting the inevitable had gotten him nowhere. Breaking loose didn’t seem realistic anymore. He was simply going through the motions. Rebellion had become a habit. 

He rubbed his wrists, fingers working restlessly over the slaveband’s weldmarks. His optics stared out the window, but he didn’t see the guard formation in the distance. He kept refocusing, watching the reflections. He looked sullen. He dimmed his optics and shook his head a bit to banish the thought before looking beyond himself. 

Behind him, Optimus paced at a casual stroll as he read. The ex-Prime missed action as much as he did, although it didn’t manifest in the same way. 

Beyond Optimus was the last slave in the harem, Megatron’s last, most loyal follower. Soundwave’s reward for service was a life sentence as the lowest rank a slave could be. There were times Megatron wondered if he should attempt to execute the mech for his own good. It would be a mercy Soundwave, and the last favor Megatron might be able to grant him if he could manage it. 

Even as he thought it, Megatron knew that wasn’t true. Soundwave was arguably the only one Megatron had power over anymore, and he used it to serve his own ends, pointless as they were. He _could_ spare Soundwave punishment. He didn’t. It would take bowing to Ratbat and Starscream as Optimus did, and he -- he wouldn’t. He could, but he wouldn’t.

Soundwave currently knelt in the middle of the room, hands smoothing over the floor in frantic seeking. His trembling was visible even in the watery reflection in the window. He’d spent the past orn searching on hands and knees, the side of his helm pressed to the floor more often than not as he peered across it in vain hope of finding a single, tiny, lost needle. He couldn’t walk, but he’d been inching along the floor of his own initiative the whole orn. 

He had to find the needle. Death would indeed be a mercy if he didn’t.

Optimus had noticed a couple tears in the decorative pillows from Earth, and he’d made one of his sweet, pretty pleas to Ratbat for the means to repair them. Ratbat had decided it was beneath Optimus to do such manual labor, which actually meant that he considered it to be a humiliation better suited to inflicting on his favorite whipping mech. Soundwave had been ‘generously’ been granted the use of a needle and thread to repair the pillows.

Objectively, Megatron understood that to mean Ratbat wanted his two slaves to languish about the harem like the pampered interface drones they were. Giving Soundwave all the manual labor elevated Optimus and Megatron as symbols that much more. 

In reality, it pushed responsibility onto the harem eunuch. The carrier mech was deaf and mute, uncoordinated enough that he couldn’t lift trays and could barely crawl. Tasking him with repairing Optimus’ precious pillows was a trap. If he succeeded, the pillows were repaired. If he failed, Ratbat would punish him. Either way. Ratbat won.

Sewing was within Soundwave’s abilities, however. Learning to mimic human craftmanship wasn’t the most demeaning chore he’d ever done. He’d even told Megatron it was almost enjoyable, in a repetitive, hypnotic way. Or rather, Soundwave had mimed something to that effect to Optimus, who’d told Megatron later. Soundwave would never admit such a thing to his former leader. Despite 168.1 vorns enslaved together, there were still limits on how they interacted. Megatron would find it as strange as Soundwave if they dropped all the formalities of commander and subordinate.

That tweaked Megatron as completely ridiculous at the moment. They were prisoners clinging to the trappings of freedom. Holding on to their respective ranks felt like a weirdly desperate pretension. 

It was a sort of comfort. They weren’t friends, not precisely, but their relationship had always been more than military rank. Had that changed? Soundwave was broken in defeat, ground flat beneath their master’s heel, and the ex-tyrant wondered if that made him any less _Soundwave_. He was the lowest of the low, a gelded eunuch, but they still understood each other. 

Megatron scowled. Back to the repletion-smoothed argument he and Optimus had worn out. Nothing changed. 

His reflection scowled back at him. It looked pensive and sulky. He’d begun his servitude with a towering wrath, and it had eroded down to this. The lost passion bothered him, but he couldn’t muster more than a flash of annoyance at his own lack of energy.

He kept rubbing at the slavebands, but one fingertip teased over the tiny sliver of metal hidden in the seam between wristlet and forearm. It seemed stupidly inadequate. He didn’t seriously believe a needle would set him free. It was sharp but utterly useless for anything beyond -- maybe, in theory -- picking loose one of the inhibitors locked into his major transformation joints. He couldn’t even reach them all on his own. Unlocking the few he could reach would accomplish nothing in the long run, especially since he’d been stripped of major parts of his altmode anatomy. 

Not that it mattered. Transforming would get him nowhere since someone would have to fire him. As loyal as Soundwave was, he’d be worse than useless in an escape attempt. The ex-officer had gone well past accepting his place. Soundwave might not actively betray Megatron to their owner, but demanding his help would reduce the broken mech to a conflicted wreck of ingrained obedience versus loyalty.

Megatron had stopped involving Soundwave in his plans soon after the first regression. Optimus had protested, even pleaded for the carrier mech as their lord and Master picked apart Soundwave’s mind. Megatron had glared, unable to do more. Soundwave had managed to progress, cobbling together enough self-repair code to climb to his feet, stumbling but able to hold onto objects if they weren’t too heavy. Ratbat had deleted those clumsy work-arounds, one by one. It had been painful to watch. He couldn’t imagine what it had been like for Soundwave. 

Megatron didn’t handle helplessness well. Watching Optimus plead had embarrassed him, but being unable to do anything but stand by as Soundwave begged had enraged him. Later, when Starscream visited, he’d intentionally picked a screaming fight. He’d destroyed furniture and made a scene. It’d gotten the slavebands turned back until he was pathetically weak, but it’d prevented his former Air Commander from continuing Soundwave’s torment. 

It was the only protection he would offer. Anything else would open the situation to exploitation. Neither Ratbat nor Starscream would hesitate to use a moment of sympathy against him. 

He wasn’t emotionless, however. It stung him to see Soundwave reduced to groveling, and failure carried far more punishing consequences for him. Megatron knew that. Optimus sought to please their master, and Megatron sought to escape, but Soundwave sought only and ever to please. Freedom wasn’t even a dream to the carrier mech anymore. It would send Soundwave into a nervous breakdown if Megatron forced his loyalist to participate in plans to rebel, resist, escape. 

Involved or not, the consequences still fell on him. Megatron’s defiance would punish Soundwave today, and the ex-tyrant scowled at their reflections in the window as he turned that over in his mind. Their Master relished summoning Soundwave to his presence. Soundwave would be forced to confess that he’d lost the needle, and then he’d pay for that mistake. The shaking mech Megatron watched in the window would silently shriek at Ratbat’s feet for mercy that wouldn’t be granted. 

It wasn’t a mistake. Soundwave hadn’t lost the needle; Megatron had taken it, and for that, Soundwave would suffer.

If it bought Megatron half a chance at freedom, it was a fair trade. So he’d thought earlier, at least, back when he palmed the needle. Back before he started pondering habit and real feeling. Now he wasn’t sure. He didn’t know if he’d stopped using Soundwave in his plans because of a vague sense of pity or because he knew his plans would never succeed. Setting his last loyal follower up to be punished again and again was cruel even for the slave who’d ruled the Decepticons.

He turned and strode across the room, footsteps rattling the table as he passed. The vibrations startled Soundwave, and the boxy blue mech blinked up at him. Over half of his visor stayed offline. It fit in with the rest of his appearance. 

Anger shot up Megatron’s backstruts like fire, but even the fiery flash made the dull resignation he’d been feeling more obvious. The constant abuse of his former officer made anger simmer in his tanks, hot and raw, and the rest of his emotions were a stark contrast to it. The idea of using the needle he’d stolen felt strangely numb. The usual defiant determination felt subdued. He was going through the motions of rebellion without hope of success. 

He resented what had been and was done to him, but he’d stopped _hating_ at some point. Rebellion had become a cyclical habit, part of the harem routine, and his anger stretched so thin he couldn’t even get angry over it. Coming up with a new escape plan was a way to break the monotony of slavery, not a proud stance against surrender.

Throwing himself on the bed, Megatron huffed a sound too harsh to be a sigh. “I want to spar.” Demanding, always demanding, and never getting what he ordered. 

“I won’t fight you,” Optimus said. He didn’t look up from his reading. Of course the ex-Prime wouldn’t fight. His combat-grade armor had been switched out vorns ago for civilian plating unfit for battle. Megatron still had his thick, heavy silver armor, but he’d wager it’d been left on him for appearance’s sake. Optimus was the tame one, docile enough to be handled gently. He was the wild one who had to be handled with welder’s gloves. Their contrast made the harem more exotic place: two legends in captivity.

Megatron grunted. After a moment of silence, he folded his arms and looked toward the door, away from the ex-Prime. Soundwave had crept to that end of the room to begin his search yet again, thin plating shivering in fear for what faced him if he didn’t find the needle soon. Megatron’s optics rested on him for a second before moving on. 

The words came out slowly. “Not even if I ask?”

The slow pacing stopped. “You never **ask**.” 

Another grunt. Megatron turned his head toward the Autobot.

Optimus stood there looking at him, a bright touch of wonder in his optics. “Megatron? What’s wrong?” Curiosity filled the question, emotion strong enough that Megatron could almost pretend this was the same mech he’d once fought in battlefields across the galaxy. 

The interest would fade. Optimus didn’t hold onto passion for very long anymore. Megatron saw his future before him, and he was just as faded. He would no longer be who he was. Who he’d once been, that was, because he didn’t think he was who he’d been anymore.

He shut off his optics and laid back. “It’s nothing.” Recharge. He needed recharge. He’d regain his willpower and resist again. He would never accept slavery, and he would strive to be free. He’d be fine tomorrow, and the cycle would resume without a hitch. 

Left behind by the window, the needle glittered on the floor. Soundwave would find it eventually.

 

**[* * * * *]**


End file.
